


Against the Odds

by zaan



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Drug Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s06e01 A Time to Stand, Episode: s06e02 Rocks and Shoals, F/M, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaan/pseuds/zaan
Summary: With the war going badly, Julian and Garak struggle alone against exhaustion and depression.  What they need is each other.
Relationships: Elim Garak/Original Female Character(s), Jadzia Dax/Worf, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Nog/OFC
Comments: 335
Kudos: 221





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during A Time to Stand, immediately after the scene in the infirmary:
> 
> BASHIR: Don't take it so personally, Garak. It's strictly a matter of mathematics.  
> GARAK: No, it's strictly a matter of our lives. You're not genetically engineered. You're a Vulcan.  
> BASHIR: If I'm a Vulcan, then how do you explain my boyish smile?  
> GARAK: Not so boyish anymore, Doctor.

_Julian – In the Infirmary_

Julian took a deep breath and leaned against the bio-bed Garak had just vacated. He knew he needed to sleep, but his body refused. He just lay in his bunk night after night, running useless calculations – which never changed but for the worse – over and over in his head, the numbers ticking by steady and strong like the clock on a bomb.

He wondered why he had behaved that way with Garak. How flat, how unresponsive, how unwelcoming he had been! It seemed a particular crime when they'd barely seen each other in months, much less shared a meal or a conversation. But he was busy, everyone was busy, at first confidently so, busy winning the war, now desperately so, trying to survive. Garak had been given formal duties almost as soon as he'd stepped on board, and he'd taken on more and more since. Every time Julian stepped on the bridge he was there. 

Now, he'd wasted the little time they'd had together. The banter between them had withered, become dry and rehearsed. The joy had gone out of it, along with everything else. People were dying, ships were being lost at an incredible rate. Right now the numbers – no, he wasn't going to think about the numbers again, though he could see them flickering depressingly in the shadows of his mind. 

He'd try to make it up to Garak later. If he had time. But there was never enough time, even when he worked through lunch and into the evening and barely slept. There were too many patients, not enough supplies, not enough staff, not enough _time._ He had to do better. A mistake now – an unstocked drug, an uncalibrated machine – could so easily cost a life when there were so many patients to treat and not enough time. What good were his enhancements, what good was he, if all he could do was spout numbers and watch people die?

_Garak – on the bridge_

"Mr. Garak, how long until we reach Starbase 375 at our current speed?"

"One moment, Captain." Garak tapped the request into the screen, each tap generating bursts of pain that echoed inside his skull. He shouldn't have gone to the infirmary. He had wasted the doctor's time. Julian had found nothing wrong because there was nothing wrong, just a headache, nothing worth complaining about when the doctor had so many important things to do. He hadn't even been able to amuse Julian. His jabs had fallen flat, Julian's eyes dark and lifeless. War wasn't made for idealists, and he wasn't made to comfort them. 

"Mr. Garak, the time?"

Garak cursed himself. What was he thinking, wallowing in regret like a vole in the mud? "Apologies, Captain, we'll arrive in ..." He frowned at the screen, the numbers buzzing angrily before his eyes.

"Ensign," Sisko snapped, "Report."

Nog cast a glance at Garak. "Sir, 5.6 hours, sir."

Garak felt the eyes of the bridge crew fasten on him and stared resolutely down at his screen, willing the blur to resolve back into words. 

"Mr. Garak, perhaps you need to get some rest."

Sisko's stern voice stung him. Garak gritted his teeth. He was fine, he'd be fine, if they'd just leave him alone for a bit, let him try harder.

"That's not a request," Sisko added as Garak remained at his station. Garak knew there was no appeal to his failure. He nodded, shame-faced at what the others must think of his weakness. Determined to get off the bridge as quickly as possible, he pushed himself rapidly out of the chair. 

A mistake. The thrumming in his head surged into pounding waves and a sharp stab of nausea raised bile in his throat as the bridge swayed around him. Then everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

_Nog – on the bridge_

As Garak pitched forward, Nog catapulted himself backwards. He noted not only his own reaction but the Chief's - who sprang from his seat to catch Garak as he collapsed, easing his fall and stopping his head smashing into the floor – and the Captain's, who immediately commed the infirmary. All Nog seemed able to do was stare at the crumpled Cardassian before him.

"Ensign, eyes on your monitor," Sisko chided him. "We don't want to be caught off-guard out here."

It was barely a reprimand; even so, Nog felt his ears blush a shameful violet. "Aye, aye, Captain," he said, wincing at the squeak that worked its way into his voice. He buried his face in his monitor, trying to find something in them worth reporting. 

A few minutes later Dr. Bashir rushed onto the bridge. Nog, grateful for the superior peripheral vision of Ferengi, observed as Chief O'Brien gave way and Dr. Bashir knelt beside Garak, tricorder out. When the doctor looked up again, his face was grim - so much so that Nog thought Garak must be dead until he heard the doctor speak. 

"He's suffering from a hemorrhage – bleeding in the brain. He hit his head earlier; that likely caused a slow bleed that's been building up since. I need to get him to Sickbay immediately."

"Chief?" inquired Sisko.

"I'm on it," replied O'Brien. He initiated the transport.

The figures shimmered and disappeared. Nog wondered if Garak would die and couldn't find it in himself to be sorry; they didn't need Garak to win the war. Cardassians weren't to be trusted, and Garak was as Cardassian as they came.

_Julian – in the infirmary_

Julian lifted the limp body onto an empty bed, barely managing the weight of the dense Cardassian bone structure even with his augmentations. He called for assistance, then stood back as his nurses prepped Garak for surgery. He began as soon as they finished. One of his strengths as a surgeon, beyond technical skill and knowledge, was his concentration, a focus unfazed by the identity of the person under his knife.

Only when it was over and he knew Garak would be all right did he slump against the wall, all the dread of the last hour rushing into him in a muddy flood. Garak had nearly died, and it would have been his fault. The first alone would have crippled him, but the second ... he wiped a sweaty, shaky hand across his brow and pulled himself upright. He had a report to make, and then he needed to check on his other patients.

He found the captain in his ready room, seated with his legs propped up on a table, chin resting in his hands. 

"Captain? Do you have a moment?"

Sisko nodded and heaved himself out of his chair with a muffled groan and a crack in his joints, waving Julian in. "Come in, doctor."

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir. You look like you could do with a rest."

"So could we all, doctor," Sisko replied, and Julian felt the keen appraising eyes on him. "How is Garak?"

Julian pulled in a narrow breath. "Resting. I'd like to keep him under observation for a few days."

Sisko paused, a frown wavering on his forehead. "Is that really necessary?"

"His recovery will be quicker if he rests, and we both know that won't happen if I let him leave Sickbay." Julian's hands gestured in a vague mix of frustration and appeal, only to find the captain unmoved, his answer curt.

"None of us have the luxury of resting, and we _need_ Garak to keep interpreting code – there's too much for him to keep up with as it is."

"Captain, I – " Julian protested.

Sisko pressed him. "Will releasing him sooner cause him irreparable damage?"

Julian clenched his jaw into a scowl. "No, sir," he admitted. "But if he overdoes it - which we both know he will – the lingering effects -"

"Release him, doctor, as soon as he's awake," Sisko said, the order explicit not only in his words but in his clipped tone.

"With all due respect –" Julian bristled. 

Sisko bristled in return, and they paired off like two terriers in a rat pit. 

"That's an order, doctor." 

"Which I officially protest," Julian snapped back.

They stared at each other, Julian looking away first. He knew as well as Sisko that his protest was hollow; all Starfleet cared about was using Garak until he had nothing useful left to give. That didn't mean he had to be complicit. 

He locked eyes with Sisko again. "This was my fault. Garak came to Sickbay earlier. He told me he'd hit his head, and yet I failed to give him a full examination."

Sisko paused, just slightly, before replying. "You were tired, doctor. It's understandable that you'd forget." 

Julian heard the suggestion implicit in the statement. Sisko would have no choice but to report negligence to the medical board, but Garak would never make the charge and no one else had been privy to their conversation. Julian drew back his shoulders.

"I was tired, yes, but I didn't forget. I dismissed Garak because I didn't take him seriously. That decision – that _negligence_ \- nearly cost Garak his life. I failed in my primary duty as a physician."

Sisko turned and drifted towards the viewport, hands twisting together behind his back, footsteps barely audible on the tight-woven carpet. His words when they came were cloaked in a casual and – if Julian hadn't known better - even friendly tone. "You know that would mean an inquiry and a possible suspension?"

"I'm aware, sir," Julian replied to his back.

Sisko turned, shards of disapproval glinting in his eyes. "Do you not care about the impact that could have? That you won't be able to rejoin the Defiant if she leaves before the inquiry? The lives that could be lost without you? It's Garak, doctor. You can't be blamed for not believing him, and frankly, he doesn't seem a worthy reason to become a martyr to your ethics."

Julian felt like he had been slapped, the sting of the words making his cheeks flush red. He stepped forward an inch, the outrage punctuating his words. "The fact that Garak doesn't think he's entitled to a shred of consideration and that Starfleet agrees - despite what he's given, despite what he's sacrificed –- doesn't make it right. "

Once again their eyes locked, but this time it was Sisko who looked away. He turned to stare again into the darkness and Julian wondered if he was contemplating the horde of enemies that hid in its depth. 

"Dismissed, doctor," Sisko said, without turning around.

The tone was flat, final. There was nothing left to say. 

Julian left.

_Garak – in the infirmary_

Cardassians woke easily, without the groggy stages of wakefulness that plagued humans. To them, waking was little different than shifting attention, knowing instantly where they were and what had come before. The fact that Garak woke in a foggy cloud of vague impressions alarmed him. He could smell disinfectant and dried blood. An infirmary, or an interrogation room. They had the same smell, the same instruments, the same veneer of cleanliness over ghosts of old blood. 

Worry mounted in him. He had a terror of his own mind, that it would one day snap its leash and, once untethered, never return. Sometimes he felt that his control stood on such tenuous ground that any disturbance would send him hurtling down into an abyss of old and imagined horrors.

He focused on evening out his breathing until he felt his heart rate relax. Julian. If this was the infirmary – and he sincerely hoped it was ... he opened his eyes briefly, blinking them shut against the bright light before bracing himself and trying again. To his relief, his eyes found only the gleaming, Starfleet-grey walls of the Defiant's infirmary. 

He began to push himself up on his elbows and at once Julian was there, frowning down his concern and arresting his ascent with a light hand on his chest.

"Lay back a minute – just a minute," he said as Garak protested. He aimed his tricorder at Garak's head and Garak tried to keep his unease at bay. "I didn't expect you to be awake this soon," Julian remarked. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Of course."

Julian sighed and gave him a look which clearly conveyed his knowledge that with Garak, both extremely short and extremely long answers were most often lies. 

"You came to the infirmary and told me you'd hit your head on a bulkhead," Julian said, and Garak wondered at the unease in his voice, watching curiously as Julian's throat clenched as he swallowed before continuing. "I didn't take it as seriously as I should have. I only gave you a cursory scan, and so I didn't see that you had a small, slow bleed in your brain. You were on the bridge, you appeared confused, and then you collapsed."

Garak took the words in. They didn't jog any memories, but they did explain Julian's demeanour – misplaced guilt on Garak's behalf. 

"And this happened when?"

"A few hours ago."

Garak grabbed the side of the bed and Julian helped him into a sitting position. Swallowing back the dizziness that ensued, Garak attempted a perky smile.

"Well, doctor, once again I must thank you for your kind assistance."

"Garak, you need to rest. I mean it. I really think you should stay here for a few days, a few hours at least."

Garak did his best to look bemused. "I have quarters, with a bed if I recall. I can rest there as easily as here, can I not?" Julian pursed his lips, which meant he was unconvinced but for some reason he wasn't pressing it. Garak stood up and managed to keep himself mostly steady. "Now, if you'll excuse me ..."

"Wait." Julian went to the cupboard and came back with a small bottle of pills. He tipped one out and placed it in Garak's hand, his warm fingers causing Garak's heart to flutter as they brushed against his smooth scales. Julian let the touch linger for a fraction of a second too long. "For the headache. Don't bother lying; I _know_ you have one." 

Garak turned the pill over in his fingers. "And the side effects?"

"Minimal."

Garak barked out a laugh. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific than that, doctor."

"A bit of nausea, possibly more difficulty concentrating." 

"I'm afraid that's unacceptable." He attempted to pass the pill back, but Julian took his hand in his own and closed Garak's fingers around the pill. Garak swallowed at the contact, not looking up. Julian's gentle voice caressed him.

"You won't be concentrating if you're up all night because of the pain, either."

Garak hesitated, then sighed. "Very well, doctor." 

The pill was chalky and bitter.

"I'll come by your quarters later and give you another before bed," Julian said, too casually.

Garak tensed. "Oh?"

"It's no trouble."

"Afraid I'll take it too soon?" Garak challenged, the triptacederine and addiction between them, more bitter and difficult to swallow than the pill. "There's a difference, doctor," Garak seethed , "Between actions that affect only oneself and actions that affect one's duty."

"Garak –"

He heard the apology underneath his name but was too hurt to accept. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Julian – outside Garak's and Jadzia's quarters_

"Come in."

Jadzia was in the top bunk, lying on her stomach with her PADD propped on the pillow. She set it aside with a yawn and sat up, resting her back against the wall and drawing her knees up to her chest. She was still in uniform, a smudge of black grease on its sleeve. A stray piece of hair hung over her forehead, having resisted her attempts to tuck it out of the way.

"What's up, Julian?" 

"Sorry to interrupt, especially as it seems it was for nothing. I was looking for Garak. He was _supposed_ to come back here and rest." He frowned at the bottom bunk - sheets tucked and blankets folded with military precision - as if it were complicit in the crime. 

"That would be a first. He's hardly ever here - or at least not when I'm here."

"He's never here? Where else would he go?" He looked around and realised there was no evidence of Garak's presence, save for a locked trunk at the end of the bed. 

A tired shrug. "To be honest, Julian, I thought he was staying with you."

Julian's eyes snapped back to Jadzia. "With me? Why would you think that?"

"Come on, Julian – you can't tell me there's _nothing_ between the two of you. It was a reasonable assumption."

Julian leaned back against the wall. He wiped a gritty hand down his face. He should have known they'd have this conversation sooner or later. 

"We have feelings for each other, yes," he admitted, "And yes, there have been times when we've come close to acting on those feelings, but no, nothing's ever come of it."

"Why not?"

He looked up. "Why not? How do you think Starfleet would take to him cosying up to a senior officer? Or with me being with an Order operative?"

"A former operative who's now working with Starfleet and probably has more security clearance than either of us."

"But who is still loyal, first and foremost, to Cardassia. If the Dominion is ousted from Cardassia, if Cardassia and the Federation are still hostile –"

"That's a lot of ifs, Julian. Especially when our life expectancy is being measured in months. Why not be with Garak if that's what you want?"

"Because I'm an augment, Jadzia. They let me stay in Starfleet. Now it's up to me to prove they made the right decision."

"You've nothing to prove that you haven't proven already, Julian. It doesn't matter how perfect, how model an officer you are; it doesn't matter how much you sacrifice – in some people's eyes you'll always be the augment." She paused as a new thought occurred to her. "Is that why you made Ben report you to the medical board? To prove something?"

"No!" He pulled himself upright and paced around the small space. "I fucked up, Jadzia, and Garak almost died."

"Yes, you fucked up. But ... a medical board of inquiry?"

"You don't think I should be held accountable for my actions?"

"At the standards you set for yourself? No. Maybe you should listen to everyone around you on this, Julian. Ask Miles what he thinks. Ask Garak."

"Maybe," Julian agreed without agreeing. He turned away. "I'd better go." 

He still had to find Garak.

Jadzia hesitated, then – to Julian's relief - picked up her PADD and returned to her reading. "All right, Julian – but remember I'm here if you want to talk about it later."

"I will. Thanks, Jadzia. Good night."

_Garak – Star Chart Room_

Garak leant over the console, eyes closed, trying to breathe through the pain. He'd been all right at first, no doubt due to the pain medication the doctor had given him. That had worn off hours ago. He wished he had another pill. Two would be better. He smiled bitterly. Julian had been right to doubt him, if he could not make it through even a few hours of pain without craving relief. He wanted to lay down, to sleep, but Dax was off-shift and no doubt in their quarters. 

He had just started on his third attempt at projecting the most likely route of the Cardassian fleet when the perimeter alert he'd set up flashed its warning. Ignoring the pain the action would cause, he pulled himself upright so that he was composed and ready by the time the door slid open. 

Seeing it was Julian, he allowed his posture to relax slightly. Julian looked him over, anger and relief warring on his face. 

"This isn't exactly resting in your quarters."

"I don't recall saying _when_ I would rest."

As he'd expected, Julian didn't care for the semantics. 

"Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you do this to me?"

"To you? I hardly – " Garak stopped as a high-pitched clanging announced the beginning of the docking procedure. He shut his eyes, suppressing the urge to ball his fists into his ears. A moment later they shot open at the shock of warm fingers pressed against his temple and the scent of a warm body close to his own. Garak's hand whipped up and wrapped itself around Julian's wrist. Long seconds passed, their eyes tangled together, before Garak gently pulled Julian's hand down and away. But he didn't let go. 

"Please don't." The longing in his voice belied the words.

"Elim." 

Garak swallowed and moistened his lips. It had been easier on DS9 with more space to avoid one another and without the turmoil of war to draw them together. He felt his thumb, seemingly of its own accord, start to trail down the length of Julian's palm. 

Garak tensed his arms, let go, and took a step back. 

Julian's arm followed, hanging in the empty air between them for a moment before Julian let it fall to his side. He dropped his eyes and fidgeted in his pocket.

"Here. I thought you might need these."

Garak blinked at the full bottle of pills, battling his first instinct to reject the offer, and reached out. He shook a pill into his palm, annoyed at the trembling in his hand, and swallowed it quickly, feeling it drag down his throat. 

He replaced the lid, running his thumb over its edge, a faint tremor in his hand. He forced himself to pass the bottle back. Julian gave him an appraising look but slipped the bottle back into his pocket without comment.

"All personnel. Attention, all personnel. We have just been informed that the Defiant will be receiving a complete overhaul at the station. All staff are to vacate the ship. You will be assigned temporary quarters on the station. Please gather up your belongings, shut down all systems, and exit the ship as soon as possible."

The echoing blare of the announcement made Garak half-wish he had succumbed to temptation and taken the whole bottle. 

"We normally get more notice," he remarked, wondering what was behind the decision.

"I have to get to the infirmary, start getting the patients ready for transfer." Julian's mind was already tabulating the long list of things that needed to be done. 

"If I can help – "

"You can. Get your things and then lie down in my quarters." Being on call at all times meant he warranted private quarters, close to the infirmary.

Garak hesitated. With the systems being shut down there was little else he could do but rest, but ... he felt Julian's hand close around his arm.

"Please. I'll feel much better if I'm not worrying about you. You can pack my stuff up, if you really must do something, so long as you take it easy and lie down at least for awhile." 

"All right."

Julian squeezed his arm and let go. "Thank you. I'll come get you when I'm done."

_Nog - In the Exit Corridor of the Defiant_

Nog and the Chief were among the last to leave, the Chief wanting to finish his upgrade to the propulsion system before ' _some idiot with a wrench'_ got hold of it during the refit. He was still grousing about the short notice they'd been given, but Nog was only half-listening - when the Chief was grumbling he rarely required much in the way of response.

He was more interested in the heated exchange Doctor Bashir was carrying on with one of the Starbase ensigns. Fortunately, being a Ferengi, he was able to hear the conversation well before anyone was aware of his eavesdropping.

"... I really don't see why it's a problem. No one's settled in yet – surely all you have to do is switch the assignment."

"It sets a precedent, sir," said the Ensign, stiffly underlining the word _sir._

Nog rolled his eyes. The doctor was obviously trying to get his room assignment changed and, in typical human fashion, was going about it completely the wrong way. Arguing rarely got one anywhere.

They were still at it when he and the Chief joined them, though both participants were noticeably more red in the face.

"What's going on?"

"What's going on," said the Doctor (and Nog could hear the faint grinding of his teeth), "Is that I'm trying to get Ensign Davies to see reason."

"I'm sure it's a misunderstanding," said the Chief, with a hopeful tug on the doctor's elbow. "Tell me about it. Maybe we can figure something else out."

Ignoring them, Nog sidled up next to Ensign Davies. "Senior Offices, right?" he whispered.

Davies startled, then relaxed and whispered back. "They're so entitled. They think they're so much more important – they've got no idea what I've got to put up with."

"Tell me about it. Much as I'm against it in principle, though, I feel fair to advise you that you may want to let this one go."

Ensign Davies reared back, his defensiveness still just below the surface. "What, are you on their side, then?"

Nog ignored him. "You see that Cardie?" he said, nodding at Garak. The slur felt too comfortable in his mouth after months of war and the shadow of Empok Nor.

Ensign Davies let his eyes linger on Garak. 

"Yeah?"

Nog leaned in closer. "He used to be a member of the Order. The Obsidian Order. They keep him around because he's useful, but he's cracked."

"Him?"

"It's true. Six of us went on an away mission with him; only the Chief and I came back. I'd lay a load of latinum he'll kill somebody again one of these days, and if it's a roommate you forced on him when you had another option .... "

Ensign Davies chewed his lip. "I see."

"Just wanted you to know – we ensigns have to stick together."

Nog enjoyed the Doctor's disbelief at his success almost as much as the gratitude that followed it. He waved the thanks aside as if he were the Grand Nagus dispensing a favor.


	4. Chapter 4

_Garak – that evening_

The quarters were larger than the Defiant's but dirty and rundown in the way of things used by everyone and owned by no one: the floors were scuffed, the walls were stained and nothing worked. The thermometer promised tropical temperatures on demand but failed to deliver, and the only thing to keep out the cold were flimsy blankets more suited to keeping in warmth than generating it. 

Garak thought little of the disappointing beds with their thin mattresses and creaky frames, but at least they weren't the atrocities humans called bunk beds. They were even set up properly, on opposite sides of the room and against the wall. Julian claimed the less desirable bed closer to the door, either from a show of consideration or a lack of awareness. Garak couldn't decide which, both being equally likely.

"Not exactly the Ritz, is it?" Julian remarked as he began to unpack.

"Hmm?" Garak replied, checking for vents and running a practiced eye over the room, guessing where the recording devices were likely hidden.

"A swanky hotel that once catered to the rich and famous."

"Ah. Somewhere Julian Bashir, secret agent, might have stayed." He decided not to remove the devices until Julian was out of the room and to unpack instead. 

Julian – much less particular how, or if, his clothes were folded – finished first and wandered over to the replicator.

"Not a lot of options, and nothing Cardassian I'm afraid, but there's soup, or pasta if you'd prefer? Or I could program something in from memory."

"Perhaps later." 

Julian frowned back at him. "Garak, you need to eat. You aren't feeling nauseated, are you?" 

"Only by the thought of what that replicator might produce." He braced himself for an argument but Julian merely scowled in silent disapproval and busied himself at the replicator. 

Garak heard the rapid tap of Julian's fingers as he entered a recipe - a somewhat complicated one from the length of time it took him. He wondered how many replicator recipes, shuttle schedules, and other random scraps of information were lodged in Julian's brain and if he could replicate a half-decent kanar.

A few minutes later the familiar smell of shepherd's pie, one of Julian's favourite meals, drifted across the room. Underneath it was another, sweeter scent. 

"Here," said Julian, holding out a steaming mug. 

Garak breathed in deeply. Chocolate. He cupped his hands around it and let the fragrant warm air glide across his face. He sipped it. The taste was dark, bitter with a hint of salt. Julian had programmed it with a Cardassian's palate in mind. Knowing Julian, he had likely fortified with nutrients as well. 

"Mmmm." He sat down gingerly on the cot, which sagged slightly under his weight. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Julian perched on his own cot and shoveled in his dinner. "I'm going to meet the Chief tonight, check the place out."

"Mmm hmm." The chocolate was as supple and smooth as his finest fabrics. 

"You will stay in and rest, won't you?" Julian persisted.

Garak looked up from his cup in surprise. "Of course I'll stay in."

Julian's fork paused midway to his mouth. "I hardly see why it's of course, when you didn't so much as _sit down_ after major surgery."

Garak sighed and reluctantly removed his focus from his hot chocolate. "That was on the Defiant, where my wandering around wasn't likely to cause undue concern." And where he had the ancient, too observing eyes of Dax upon him.

"Oh. Right." A pause. "I also notice you didn't say anything about resting."

"Didn't I?" It would be a good idea to study the Starbase layout and personnel. It was unclear how long they would be there. He also needed to prepare for the strategy meeting he was going to with Sisko, as well as work on a faster system for decoding messages. 

"You're impossible. I'm going to shower."

Garak heard the clatter of the dish in the recycler and then the protesting groan of the sonic shower. A few minutes later Julian reappeared.

"You'll be all right?" he asked, hesitating at the door.

"I'll be fine."

After Julian left Garak gave the room a more thorough inspection, removed a decrepit listening device, and took a disappointing shower. It removed most of the grime, or at least moved it around, but sonic showers did not provide heat and he was shivering when he climbed into bed. 

He took the pill Julian had left and then tried to read, but he just kept chasing the words around the page. The more he stared the more his nausea returned. He let the PADD drop from his fingers. Julian may believe his usefulness was secondary to his health, but Julian was a doctor. To Starfleet he was merely an asset to be used and discarded. Did Julian really think they'd leave him his freedom if he could no longer work for them? A sweaty cold feeling inched across his body.

Unable to do anything else, he resigned himself to resting. In the end, however, the deciding was easier than the doing. He was cold, and the hard lumps of the bed ground into his back. He was disturbed by the hum of the station and occasional steps in the corridor. Eventually he managed a light doze, only to be woken by Julian's return. 

"Garak?" A whisper.

Garak came more fully awake but, curious, kept still. Julian stole over, trying to keep his heavy feet quiet. A moment later Garak felt a heavy blanket draped over him. A blanket. Guls knew how long Julian had looked for it, or how long he had dragged it around the Starbase. It was likely ugly and definitely musty, but also gloriously, marvellously warm - almost as warm as the way Julian's hand lingered for a long moment on his arm before he slipped away.

_Julian – the Replimat the next morning_

They'd managed – just – to find an empty table. Another failed fleet action meant a full port of battered, bruised ships and their exhausted crews. It was easy to tell them apart from the station residents and personnel from ships not posted to the front line. The crews kept to themselves, hunched over their tables, talking in low, weary voices and dressed in singed uniforms they hadn't had the time, energy or optimism to repair. Julian imagined the crew of the Defiant looked much the same; he certainly felt the same.

"Are we going out tonight?" 

This from Nog. He had retained so much of his enthusiasm that his mere presence exhausted Julian. The irony did not escape him.

"Not for me," said Miles. "I'm too old for that sort of thing."

Their explorations the night before had turned up little of interest. There was a bar, of course. It was a depressing place - more tame and yet somehow more degenerate than Quark's - crammed full of people drinking and hooking up, desperate to live in the moment, no matter how unappealing it was.

"Well, what about you, doctor?"

"Oh, I don't know ... " He felt a visceral dislike for the idea but knew he would go anyway.

Miles examined him. "What's up, Julian? You seem distracted."

Julian stared down resolutely into his coffee, measuring the dispersal rate of the steam. "Yes, well, as of this morning I've been suspended from active duty, pending the resolution of the medical board hearing."

"That's bollocks." 

"I knew it was a possibility." A slim one, according to his calculations, for what they were worth.

Miles, too much of a soldier to let sympathy override practicality, went back to his breakfast. "When's the hearing then?"

"I don't know. They haven't set a date yet. I just hope it's over before we're reassigned ... anyway, let's not talk about it. "

They ate in silence for awhile. Julian drifted off into a sea of morbid calculations.

"Look - there's Commander Dax." Nog waved enthusiastically and soon Jadzia was weaving her way through the tables towards them.

"Have you heard?" she asked as soon as she came up. Miles pushed a chair out with his foot and she sat down.

"No, what?" asked Julian.

"We're not going back to the Defiant."

Julian's spoon clattered to the table. "What? Why?"

"I don't know, but Admiral Ross said we'll be getting our new assignment at sixteen hundred hours." 

Nog and Miles exchanged glances.

"What?" said Jadzia.

"Julian's been suspended pending the hearing."

Julian tried not to read _I-told-you-so_ into the Trill's sympathetic glance. There was a wrenching in his gut at the now real possibility of being separated from his friends – and the suddenly much more real possibility of being discharged from Starfleet.

"Don't worry, doctor. I'll lay a load of latinum it'll be settled before our first briefing," said Nog, with all the confidence of the young and inexperienced.

Julian smiled fondly at him. "You'll forgive me if I'm not a betting man." 

He didn't like the odds, not one bit.

_Nog – the bar that evening_

Nog had never felt uncomfortable in a bar before. He supposed it was because he had only ever been there to work. The drink he held felt odd in his hand. He should be running to deliver it somewhere, not standing alone in a corner with it. 

He took a large swig and coughed up half of it. His father and Quark would be equally appalled at his drinking, though for vastly different reasons. His father would be concerned that, drunk, someone would take advantage of him. His uncle would be concerned that, drunk, he would be unable to take advantage of anyone else. 

Nog wasn't even enjoying the drink. He would have set it aside, but holding it gave him something to do, as if he weren't just standing there awkwardly alone. He had joined the periphery of several groups but never managed to work his way into the centre. 

He noticed a woman staring at him. He took the opportunity to smile and walk over.

"Let me introduce myself. I'm Ensign Nog, with the Defiant."

Unfortunately, he didn't get to hear her response as a man next to her wheeled round and gawked at him. "A Ferengi in Starfleet? We must really be getting desperate."

"Most Ferengi aren't interested in Starfleet. I am – _and_ in behaving like a Starfleet officer."

His reproof was lost on the man, who turned drunkenly to his friends.

"Hey, how many Ferengi does it take to change a light bulb? Two: one for changing it and another one to sell the broken one."

He laughed and a number of people around him chimed in. Nog could see that the buffoon was just getting warmed up. He may not have much experience drinking, but he certainly had experience dealing with drunkards. He was just about to rejoin when the crowd fell mute.

"Is there a problem?"

Worf's bulk loomed behind him.

"No, sir," said Nog. "No problem."

Worf frowned deeply and seemed like he was going to say something else, but Jadzia, leaning drunkenly on him, was tugging at his arm. Nog watched them go and turned around only to find himself alone once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We never really got to see the crew explore life on a Starfleet Starbase, as opposed to DS9. Curious if anyone has any thoughts on what it would be like, especially during the war.


	5. Chapter 5

_Garak – in their quarters_

Garak woke in the dark, adrenaline sparking along the nerves of his spine. He bolted from the bed. The cold air swiftly surrounded him, worming under his clothes and putting its icy fingers on his skin. For several horrible moments he didn't know where he was. He stood rigid, straining and listening, shivering in his bare feet on the metal floor.

Slowly, reality reasserted itself: the shabby replicator, the shadow of Julian lying in his bunk, the soft susurration of his breath. Julian. It was Julian's medication that did this to him, galvanized his nervous system with random shocks of adrenaline. Garak swore and crawled back under the covers, pulling them tight around himself. There was nothing to do now but wait for it to wear off. 

Sleep was impossible; it was all he could do to lie still. His body trembled. The adrenaline slipped through his veins, bringing with it an incipient panic, a rush of irrational thoughts that jammed together in his mind like logs on a river. He was trapped, surrounded by the Federaji, imprisoned among them, entombed.

His hand twitched towards the night stand where the triptacederine lay, hidden in its drawer. Julian didn't know about it, wouldn't approve of it, but it helped when nothing else did. He'd taken it only a handful of times since joining the Defiant, times when he couldn't think, could barely stand, for lack of sleep. He knew he was dancing on a slippery slope, but ... one dose would be enough, half a dose. 

It wasn't a craving, a mere selfish desire; he needed the near- transcendent clarity the drug gifted him. The more encryptions he broke, the more strategies he devised, the more Jem'Hadar he killed, the more likely their chances of winning the war. He needed it. With his injury, he wasn't at his best, no matter what he maintained. 

He'd always found Federation stations uncomfortable, but with the strain of war and fatigue, it was worse. His senses assaulted him with the too brightness, the too loudness, the too _muchness_ of his surroundings. Headaches plagued him, and while Julian's medication banished them it unbalanced him, fracturing his focus, making it impossible to work. And he needed to work. He needed to contribute. Not just for his sanity, but for his safety. Starfleet coveted his expertise, but he knew that when his hands faltered or the well of his knowledge ran dry, they would find a quiet hole in which to bury him.

Perhaps they were digging it now. 

They hadn't seen fit to include him in the senior crew's new mission. They hadn't even asked for his advice. He didn't know what they were planning, but he knew he had detractors - those in power who thought they should have no truck with a Cardassian, especially someone like him. Some who thought the only good Cardassian was a dead one. He wished he could find out what was going on – with the mission, with the crew, with Julian's hearing, with anything. Information soothed him as much as any drug, and he was desperate for it. On the Defiant, Sisko had included him in briefings along with the senior crew – and when he hadn't, Garak had simply hacked his way into the Defiant's computer. Here the situation was impossible. He hadn't seen Sisko since they'd arrived on the Starbase, there was no terminal in their quarters, and the systems on the Starbase were tightly guarded. 

Frustration welled in him and set his head pounding again. He was too restless to lie there, but what could he do? Security would harass him for wandering the corridors, and there was nowhere else to go. He shivered, pulling the blanket Julian had given him higher, trying not to breathe in. While warm, the blanket was smelly and steeped in dust that irritated his nose and throat. Julian had tried to replicate a replacement, but with the energy rationing he had been unable to do so. 

Garak's gaze fell on the night table. He couldn't see the triptacederine, but he knew it was there. His eyes crept over to Julian, Julian who slept so deeply an explosion might not wake him. 

Fuck it. 

It was hours before Julian stirred. He felt Julian's eyes on him, the scales on his neck bristling.

"I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to do that," Julian remarked, eyeing the open panel, he parts strewn across the floor. 

"It's not like anyone else was going to fix it." 

Julian forbore further comment. He replicated a mug of tea and sat watching Garak curse as he fiddled with the delicate wiring. 

A half hour later he was done. He replaced the panel and turned the heat on. A moment later, warm air wafted across his face. "There," he said. He stood up – or tried to. A sickening lurch of dizziness made him stumble sideways. He would have crashed into the table if not for Julian.

"Got you," said Julian. He helped him over to the bed, easing him down onto it. 

Garak closed his eyes against the dizziness. He felt the bed sag as Julian sat beside him, then the soft touch of his finger as he traced it around Garak's eye ridge.

"What am I going to do with you?" Julian asked.

"What you're doing feels nice." Julian shouldn't sit beside him and touch him like this, but Garak was tired, and tired of fighting. 

_Julian – out and about_

Julian paced the corridors, busy officers hustling past him. Miles and the others were at another briefing, apologetic when he'd asked if they'd wanted to have lunch with him. Julian hadn't been able to join them, nor was he allowed in the infirmary, even to check stock or clean the refresher. He was suspended, off-duty, a prisoner awaiting judgment. The lack of purpose left him hollow, estranged from the person he thought he was: a doctor, a Starfleet officer – he hadn't realised how much of himself could not exist in isolation (outside of the state, Garak would say).

Head down, brooding, Julian ignored the people passing. He ignored, too, the comments, the surprised whispers not meant for his ears, the unkind words. _Augment_. _Freak. Disgrace._

"Julian!"

His head jerked around. A petite woman in medical blue stood behind him with an expectant smile on her face.

"Kaith!" he exclaimed. She saved him the trouble of deciding whether to hug her or shake her hand by pulling him into a tight embrace.

"Didn't you hear me? I was practically shouting."

"Sorry, just ... things on my mind."

"Yeah, I heard about the inquest."

"I imagine it's the talk of the town."

"It is." Kath had always been a straight shooter. "How are you holding up?" 

"I'm fine. Really. What about you? I haven't seen you since graduation. Last I heard you were on the Sentinel."

"I was until a few months ago. I'm CMO on the Gulliver now. We haven't seen a lot of direct action yet, not like the Defiant, but we've been helping the ships coming in from the front lines."

Julian nodded, the understanding passing between them without words.

Kaith looked around, then said in a quieter voice, "I'm worried, Julian. There are a lot of people who have prejudices because of your enhancements."

"You can't think that will have any impact at the inquest."

"Can't I? Do you know who's on the board?"

"No ... you do?"

"Yes, I heard it from ... well, it doesn't matter."

"Who?"

She looked around again. "Parker, Sh'tolniss, and Nobeehn."

Julian's heart deflated. Parker was a disaster. He knew nothing against SH'tolniss, but Andorians were rabidly anti-augment. Nobeehn was the junior, an unjoined Trill, and likely to be dominated by the opinion of the two senior officers. The odds of him being acquitted ... he pushed the numbers away and forced a smile. "Well, nothing to do but hope for the best, is there?"

She tried to smile back. "Still an optimist, I see ... look, I need to go. We're understaffed and –"

"Of course. Thanks, though, Kaith. I mean it."

She kissed him on the cheek. "You're still the same Julian Bashir I knew at the academy."

"Which means you probably still won't go out with me."

She laughed and hurried off, leaving Julian alone with his numbers and all the time in the world to calculate them.

_Nog_

Images of the Jem'Hadar ship bounced around in Nog's mind, his imagination constructing possibilities from the bits of information he'd heard. He'd yet to see the ship – that wouldn't be until tomorrow – but he yearned to go back to the bar, find that nice Ensign he'd chatted up and see her green eyes widen as he told her about the mission.

It was a nice fantasy. He was determined to say nothing to anyone, of course, not even a hint in the letter to his father, beyond the mention of its importance. He'd wanted to talk it over more with the Chief, but he'd muttered something about maybe dropping in on the doctor. 

That was an hour ago. Perhaps he was done. If he were, they could start making lists of what they needed to do tomorrow. He veered towards the doctor's quarters, hoping to catch him. It was only when he chimed the door and it opened that he realised his mistake.

The Chief wasn't there. Neither was Julian. It was just Garak. 

Nog stiffened. Garak stepped aside, and Nog stumbled in, on automatic pilot. He put his back against the wall.

"I was looking for the Chief, actually."

"I'm afraid I haven't seen him. I don't suppose there's anything I could help you with?"

"I don't think so. I wanted to talk to him about our new assignment. Not something I can talk to you about. No offense." Nog stood straighter and tugged at his uniform.

"None taken. The least said about this _particular_ type of mission the better, after all." 

"You know about it?"

Garak winked. "Know about what?"

Nog almost laughed. He _did_ want to talk to someone, and somehow Garak seemed less menacing than he had before, his familiar smile and politeness a light balm after the stinging insults aimed at _the Ferengi_. "I just hope we'll be able to get it working," he said.

"Between your and the Chief's expertise, I have no doubt of it. It's what comes after that's difficult."

"I've never been in the Gamma quadrant before, much less in a Jem'Hadar ship."

"The epitome of comfort and style, I'm sure. Still, you can't accomplish your mission without it, can you?"

"I guess not," said Nog, pretending he'd been told about the actual mission and not just the preparations. "Um, It'll be a busy day tomorrow. I think I'll turn in."

"A wise idea. I do thank you, Ensign, for your visit."

Nog was certain Garak was sincere in his thanks. He just wasn't certain why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; was having a hard time with this for some reason. Ah well, better late than never!


	6. Chapter 6

_Garak – a meeting room_

Garak looked down the long table and counted his allies. It was a depressing exercise. Sisko at least stood by him, and Martok. Perhaps three or four more. His uneasiness solidified. With so few in his corner, and those few wielding so little influence, he saw little hope. The admiralty would force him out, sideline him for the remainder of the war - if they didn't toss him directly into a handy cell on a remote Starbase. 

At the head of the table sat his main opponent, Admiral Forester, a vole-faced man with a pinched and unhappy face. He was holding court, surveying his audience in a triumphant manner. "No one denies Mr. Garak's work is important, least of all myself, as I have already indicated. But Mr. Garak is only one person. It is essential – _essential_ – that others take over his work."

"You mean to share in his work, of course, Admiral."

Along with everyone else at the table, Garak's head swiveled to look at the speaker: Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the Enterprise. Not a man whose support Garak would have expected, not after being subjected to the violent whims of that buffoon Madred.

"Let's not quibble over words. As I said, the more people that can do the work the better. We cannot rely on Mr. Garak."

Garak had to admire the finesse with which the admiral cloaked his insult. It almost made him like the man, even if Forester was intending on getting rid of him. 

Sisko leaned forward and stared down the table. "And yet I think we must. There is a reason Mr. Garak alone has been responsible for the work; no one else can do it."

"Is that true?"

This from the station commander, Pym. Garak suppressed a rejoinder questioning the nature of truth – such philosophy floated in a pool of Starfleet earnestness tended to sink like a brick – and instead replied with a half-truth and a flagrant but necessary lie. "While I am happy to share my knowledge with Starfleet, I fear that without years of studying Kardasi, many of the intricacies would be beyond the reach of non-Cardassians."

Forester took back control of the conversation with a smooth hand, pushing it out of the eddy in which it had stalled. "I never said it would be easy, only worthwhile. Although I don't wish to cut the discussion short, we do have a full agenda, and this is by no means the most important issue on it. As I believe that we have all agreed in principle with the idea behind the project, at the very least, or so I have taken to understand, it is best to consider the matter closed for now. I and my aides will be sure to consider your remarks carefully before any action is taken. We will, of course, Mr. Garak, be sure to brief you as appropriate."

Thus dismissed, Garak bowed with fluid courtesy and left the room as if he had no further interest in the matter. Once outside, however, and finding the corridor empty, he slipped a small listening device out of an inner pocket. 

_"We should be taking more advantage of Garak's insights, not less. He should be a part of these meetings. He's got more brains and cunning than a Romulan."_

Garak smiled to himself. He appreciated Martok's support, but doubted that particular analogy would win him any converts. 

_"Unfortunately, Mr. Garak does not possess the necessary security clearance."_

This was news to Garak, but he had no time to contemplate it as his ear rung with the sound of a Klingon fist on a table. 

_"Bah. Technicalities. What counts is winning the war, not petty bureaucracy."_

_"I hardly consider security a petty bureaucratic matter, General. It has been far too easy for the Dominion to infiltrate us, far too easy. We have been lax, and we have, I think, paid for the price of it. And Garak. What do we really know about Garak?"_

Garak noted Forester had dropped the honorific Mr. in his absence – unlike Sisko, to Garak's surprise.

_"Mr. Garak has cooperated fully. More than that, he has proven himself an invaluable part of my crew,"_

_"All I am doing is advocating caution."_

_"Caution is necessary, Admiral, but so is risk."_ This from Picard.

Interesting, thought Garak.

Forester once again closed off the conversation. _"As I have stated, I will give the matter due consideration, at a later date. Now, we do have other matters to discuss."_

Garak heard several items of interest before he heard footfalls around the corner. He dropped to his feet and tucked the device under the base board. When the two Starfleet officers rounded the corner, he was already on his way. 

_Nog – the Jem'hadar ship_

Nog stared at the open panel. He had been staring at the same panel for days. He and Chief O'Brien had made little progress in understanding the Jem'Hadar ship, their updates to an outwardly patient but obviously frustrated Sisko thin and short. 

He pulled at his lower lip, a habit he'd picked up from his father, and squinted harder. The wires were a jumble, too many of them going to too many places, so that it was impossible without being able to read the language (which no one yet did) to know which station controlled what functions.

"It just don't make any sense." he muttered again.

Miles stood up with a grunt. "It'll come. We just have to be patient."

"How do you know?"

"Because that's how it always goes. It doesn't make sense, and then it does. C'mon, let's take a break, it'll help."

"Raktajino at the replimat?" Nog asked. It was the Chief's favourite drink, and he was trying to gain an appreciation of it. So far, he'd had more luck with the Jem'Hadar ship.

They walked down the nearly empty hallways. The ship was docked in a restricted section, and it was a long way to the replimat. 

Both were tired and disinclined to speak. Nog kept spinning the problem around and around in his head. What kind of people made a ship like that? He wondered what it would be like to be Jem'Hadar, not needing sleep or food or even chairs. Being disposable, interchangeable ...

Nog stopped. "That's _it,_ Chief. I've got it!"

Nog turned and raced back down the corridor.

"Hey, what about my raktajino?"

_Julian – his quarters_

Julian wondered if he was doing the right thing, and decided he didn't care. He hit the reclamation button and watched the triptacederine disappear. Garak would know he had done it, of course. So be it. Julian wasn't going to let him slip back into addiction without a fight.

As if on cue, the door slid open and Garak stepped in, looking tired and distracted.

"I didn't expect you for hours yet."

"Yes, well, it seems there are some factions who don't like a Cardassian ex-operative any more than they do an augment."

Garak walked across the room to his nightstand. He opened the drawer to put away his PADD and stopped, staring at the empty drawer. Julian fidgeted in the silence, not speaking. 

"You found it," Garak said, not turning around. "I suppose it's for the best."

There was no anger in his voice, only resignation, which was somehow worse. He sat on the bed, putting his head in his hands and massaging his temples. 

Julian walked over and, not being chased away, sat beside him. He put a tentative hand on his back. Garak stiffened, then relaxed. "What happened?" Julian asked.

"They don't want me seeing actual transmissions anymore. I'm to 'supervise' others, helping them with specific bits of code, providing general suggestions. No doubt if anyone proves at all adept at breaking the codes my services will be dispensed with entirely and I'll find myself riding out the rest of the war in a comfortable cell."

"They wouldn't."

"Please."

Julian tried for a lightness he didn't feel. "Maybe they'll let us share a cell."

"Huh."

Julian felt the familiar urge to pull Garak into his arms. He checked the thought, then wondered why he bothered. Why should he stop himself? If Starfleet was going to persecute them when they were innocent, why deny themselves? He raised a hand to brush Garak's hair back.

Garak turned his face to him, frowning. "Julian –"

He got no further before Julian, hand in Garak's hair tugging him forward, silenced him with a kiss. Garak hesitated, and Julian was about to pull back, when he felt Garak respond.

The untimely chiming of the door interrupted them. Julian cursed as he got up.

It was a young Klingon warrior, standing ill at ease in the corridor.

"Yes?" said Julian.

The Klingon looked past Julian at Garak, then back at Julian. "General Martok's regards, and would you and the Cardie join him for dinner on board his ship?"

Julian couldn't help the slight lift of his eyebrows at the invitation. He was about to refuse when Garak spoke up behind him.

"Please tell the general that we'd be delighted."

The Klingon bowed stiffly and stalked off.

Julian narrowed his eyes. "You hate parties. And Klingon food. You're not even that fond of Klingons. What are you up to?"

Garak only smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! Work has been crazy busy. I'm still plugging away and hope to get back to a more regular posting schedule. Thanks for your patience!

_Julian – Martok's ship_

As they approached Martok's ship, they fell in with Jadzia and Worf. Jadzia broke into a wide grin and slung an arm around Julian's shoulders. 

Julian tried not to tense. Her air of bonhomie felt stale when he hadn't seen her for days – long, miserable days when he could have used her support. He knew it was unreasonable to resent her spending what little time she had with Worf, but he resented it all the same. 

Fortunately, in her high spirits Jadzia failed to notice his lack of enthusiasm.

"You're coming to Martok's dinner? He never said anything to me about it. Did he tell you, Worf?"

"No. It is _unexpected_." Worf turned a suspicious eye toward Garak. 

Garak addressed Jadzia. "A kindness on the part of the General. Dr. Bashir and I are not the most popular crew members on board the Starbase."

"Their loss," said Jadzia. 

Julian frowned. Garak took every opportunity to wave a red flag in Worf's face – Julian knew for a fact it was one of his favourite hobbies – so why pass up this one? 

Jadzia nudged him. "How are you holding up, Julian?"

"Fine." His tone was more abrupt than he'd intended. He was tired of thinking about the hearing. He had no intention of talking about it, or attempting to talk about it in the few minutes it would take to reach Martok's ship. 

Jadzia opened her mouth, only to close it again. 

Her obvious hurt made him feel both guilty and angry at being made to feel that way. He had never acquired the knack of handling people, no matter how much he studied others. It was one of the things he admired about Garak, his ability to navigate the complex waters of social interactions without capsizing. 

They suffered a stilted silence until Martok came into view, waiting for them at the entrance. A toothy grin broke across his face at the sight of them and he threw his arms out wide. "Worf! Jadzia! YI'el! Qaleghqa'mo' jIQuch. BIpIv'a'?"

"JIpIv, Martok. BIpIv'a'?" Jadzia grinned back.

"JIpIv, jlplv. Pe'el!" Martok waved his arms towards the ship.

Julian frowned and tapped his temple, wondering if his UT was broken. Garak, of course, didn't miss a beat.

"Qavan, Martok."

Martok galloped off eagerly in Klingon, Garak keeping pace with apparent ease. When they finished, Martok clapped his hand on Garak's shoulder and then turned to Julian. 

"My apologies, Doctor. I never allow translators on my ship. Never liked the things,. You'll find many of my officers speak Standard. Now, let us enter. Food and wine should never be kept waiting."

"You speak Klingon?" whispered Julian as they followed Martok.

"Not yap wa' Hol, Doctor. You don't?"

Martok led them down a long corridor. It was much like any bird of prey Julian had seen: dim and dirty. No one had bothered to remove the battle-won scorch marks from the walls. Julian wondered whether they had been left because of pride or indifference or both. The burnt smell clung to the air, mixing into the fug of smoke, and spit and stale Klingon sweat. 

They stepped into a large hall jammed with low wooden tables. Martok, with the air of a king, lowered himself into the only chair, an oversized monstrosity at the head of the largest table. Everyone else sat on long benches running down the sides of the tables. Martok motioned for Julian and Garak to sit on his right and for Jadzia and Worf to sit on his left. Once the guests were seated, the remaining Klingons jostled for position. A beefy Klingon clunked his mug down next to Julian and thudded into his seat.

"Come!" Martok roared, lifting a sloshing mug. "To victory!" 

Mugs were raised. Roars and shouts of _To Victory!_ reverberated round the accompaniment of pounding fists. Heaping communal plates were carried out and dumped onto the tables. 

Martok reached forward and wrenched off a haunch of targ. Worf and Jadzia followed suit. Julian had no love of Klingon food, but he lacked the squeamishness that made it unappealing to so many humans – and no doubt to a certain, fastidious Cardassian. He turned to Garak, a teasing smirk on his face, only to have his jaw drop into oblivion.

Garak had his head tilted back, a writhing fistful of gagh in his hands, letting the worms drop wetly into and around his mouth. Julian choked. Coughing, he swigged a mouthful of the sour Klingon ale, the froth bubbling acidly on his chin, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his uniform and wondering if the stain would come out with the few rations he could spend cleaning it. 

He had never known Garak to allow even a drop of sauce to drip onto his carefully tailored clothes, except now that he looked he couldn't recall ever seeing this creation of Garak's before. Garak was dressed in a plain black outfit with silver trim, tight across the chest, outlining muscles he usually took pains to conceal. The more Julian examined it, the more certain he became that it was replicated. Replicated! This from a man who'd turned up his nose at a replicated infirmary gown as he lay dying! It at least explained why Garak was letting gagh slop all over it, if not much else. 

"Garak!" he whispered. "what the hell are you playing at?"

"Simply enjoying the dinner, doctor. aren't you?" Garak grinned. With that, he turned away from Julian to speak to Martok. "Won't you tell me about the Tilora, General? I heard the ship was twice your size and four times your firepower, and yet you managed to destroy it. "

Garak could look as fawning as he liked, but Julian knew better. If Garak was willing to leave off baiting Worf, to shove gagh in his face, and to torture himself by encouraging Martok to launch into a Klingon battle ballad, then he must want to ingratiate himself with Martok very badly indeed. 

From what he could see it was working. Martok's eyes gleamed. "Bah, the Tilora! That petaQ!" He spit beside the table. "She was cunning, but so were we. It was speed that did it. Head-on, she'd have blown us out of space. We had to work around her stern."

As Martok droned on, Julian's head drooped. He had little interest in battles – especially ones sinking under the weight of technical details – and Worf had already tortured him with this particular retelling on more than one occasion. 

He was alone in his boredom, though. The Klingons around him cursed and shouted in all the right places. His Klingon neighbour, in enthused agitation, kept driving his elbow into Julian's ribs. Julian passed the time by watching the gagh try to escape and calculating how big his bruise was going to be the next day.

Garak was the perfect picture of an enraptured audience, following Martok's tale closely and interrupting now and again to ask pointed questions. Julian knew Garak had a strategic mind – the Cardassian played his whole life as if it were a game of high stakes kotra – but he hadn't known he had such an extensive knowledge of ships and battle tactics. Judging from the keen appraisal Martok gave Garak, neither had the general.

Martok's tale eventually ended but others were quick to take up the baton. Another tale followed, and another, and another, the evening full of interminable and exaggerated reminiscences. One or two of his hosts remembered to use Standard, but most of the would-be bards recounted their deeds in booming Klingon.

Julian's only consolation was drink, which at least provided him with a floaty buzz even if his enhancements made it difficult for him to stay drunk. Garak was drinking as well – and much too much to Julian's mind, given his recent surgery. Julian resigned himself to nursing Garak the next day. Neither hints, recriminations nor threats would deter Garak, who would merely drink twice as much if Julian mouthed even a whisper of disapproval.

Julian had seen Garak drunk only once before, when dealing with the failure of the wire. Garak had been spectacularly drunk then, having downed two bottles of Quark's cheapest rotgut kanar. Julian wondered how much Klingon ale Garak could drink without ill effect. Neither his coordination nor his speech were yet affected – in fact, a talkative Garak had even launched into a battle ballad of his own.

Julian was thankful that at least Garak knew how to tell a tale, and that he told it in Standard, but as he listened to the entertainingly implausible story, he couldn't shake a nagging déjà vu. He trailed after the memory, and when he was close enough to see it for what it was it he had to raise his glass hurriedly to his lips to hide his laughter. Garak was captivating the hearts of the Klingon empire with the tailored exploits of one Elim Garak, 007. Considering Garak's background, Julian thought the odds in his favour that he _did_ have a licence to kill.

More drinking followed dinner, and the drinking quickly led to fights - small scuffles and challenges that served more to demonstrate strength and skill than to highlight any real animosity. Tired of the chaos, Julian tugged Garak away from the mob of Klingons clamoring for more of his deeds of valor. A burly Klingon, who'd been hanging restlessly on the outer edges of the group, stalked after them and threw a drunken sneer at Garak.

"You! petaQ! You're a liar. Every Klingon knows Cardassians have no honour. No spoonhead could have achieved such victories. Your words are nothing but air!" 

Julian saw the Klingon raise his knife, but before he could blurt out a warning Garak moved. He moved fast, almost faster than Julian could track. He knocked the knife out of his attacker's hand, kicked the Klingon against a wall, and with a concealed knife loosed from his forearm, impaled the Klingon's hand against the bulkhead.

Silence fell, all eyes on Garak, who sauntered over to retrieve the Klingon's knife from where it had fallen on the ground. He tossed it in the air, catching it deftly as it fell. Conscious of his audience, he lunged and thrust with it, his stance firm and graceful. This was Garak as Julian had rarely, if ever, seen him. This was the polished weapon, the arm of the Order, the son of Tain. Smooth and flawless. Mesmerising.

Point made, Garak strolled up to his would-be assailant and held the edge of the knife to his neck for a tense moment. The Klingon growled. Garak stepped back, flipped the knife, and presented the handle of it. "A good knife. I thank you for letting me try it out." He then leisurely pulled his own knife out of the Klingon's bloody hand and wiped the blood off on his pants.

The Klingons went mad. Every Klingon present pulled out a knife and started showing off. 

"A contest!" Martok roared.

Enthusiasm met the remark. More fights ensued, and Julian was roped into bandaging the inevitable wounds, no one interested in the dishonour of a dermal regenerator. Tables – many with dishes still upon them – were overturned and kicked out of the way. Two enterprising Klingons staked up pieces of still-squirming gagh on one wall as targets.

It was a good choice. The flailing worms were thin and hard to hit. Most of the Klingons could handle a knife well in a fight, but few could throw with precision. At the end of an hour, although the wall was scarred with new cuts, the worms were still alive.

Then Garak stepped forward to silent anticipation – or as silent as roomful of drunken Klingons could be. Garak didn't even aim, just stepped forward and threw. Martok rushed forward and with a cry held up the knife with a still-wiggling worm impaled upon it.

That was when the party really started. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klingon speech (thanks to online dictionaries): the first bits are just Martok saying hey how are you, welcome, and Jadzia saying fine, you. Martok's like fine, fine, come in. Then Garak greets him. The only interesting bit is Garak's response to Julian when Julian says "You speak Klingon?" Garak responds: "One language is never enough"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't been able to do a weekly update, but unfortunately my work schedule isn't allowing it. On the plus side, although you've had to wait longer, it's a pretty long chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Nog sat at a cracked and wobbly Replimat table, skulking behind a vase of fake blue flowers. He was thankful he was short enough to do so. Normally his height put him at a disadvantage, especially on ships and starbases designed for humans. Not that it bothered him. It was an inconvenience, not an embarrassment _._ He was as proud of his heritage as he was of his commission, and he was proud of the profit and skills he had acquired. Normally, he could cheer himself up just by listing them off: bartender extraordinaire, budding engineer, the first Ferengi to serve in Starfleet, one of the only cadets to ever to beat the Kobayashi Maru scenario ... 

Today, the exercise only depressed him. For all his accomplishments, he still didn't know how to strike up a conversation with Ensign Luka Priand. He risked a glance. She was still there, sitting at the table, so engrossed in what she was reading that her raktajino had gone cold. He'd met her at the bar three nights ago. They'd had a wonderful, if brief, conversation. Like him, she was from a planet poorly represented in Starfleet (Peliar Zel). Like him, she was an Ensign. Unlike him, she had many friends her own age on the Enterprise, where she was posted. Nog had barely had time to make her acquaintance before others pulled her away. He'd been hoping to run into her since, yet here was his opportunity, and here he sat, alone at his table behind an ugly vase of plastic flowers.

Nog sighed and took another bite of porridge, wondering where all his confidence had gone, run out like a coolant leak in a reaction chamber. He'd never found it difficult to speak to a female before, but this time was different. He wanted to impress her but was afraid of looking foolish; he wanted to ask her out but was afraid of being rejected; he wanted to get to know her but was afraid of being boring.

It was a mess. Worse, it was a waste of time, when he had no time to waste. He should be doing flight drills, not sitting here obsessing about Ensign Priand. It was no good knowing how the Jem'Hadar fighter worked if they couldn't fly her and fight with her. The mission depended on him. A wrong move could be the difference between success and failure. Failure could cost him, could cost all of them, their lives. Even if he survived a bungled mission, his career might not.

And yet, everyone needed a rest now and then to work better. The Chief always said that. But the Chief also said soonest started, soonest finished. Nog's head swam. He was getting nowhere. Perhaps the Rules of Acquisition could help. They had served him well at the Academy. Ironically, it was his rejection of the Rules that had indirectly brought him back to them. It was his father's adherence to Rule 18 (a Ferengi without profit is no Ferengi) that made him work at Quark's and view himself as a failure when he could have been a great engineer that made Nog reject the Rules and apply to Starfleet. 

Being around other cultures at the Academy and being forced to constantly explain the Rules to curious others had made him reflect on and appreciate the Rules in a way he never had before. Yes, there were dumb Rules of Acquisition. So what? That was true of all codes of conduct. There were good ones too, if one interpreted them properly. Take for example Rule #53: Never trust anybody taller than you. On the surface, it was ridiculous. Just below that, it seemed xenophobic. But lurking below that was a subtlety most people overlooked. Anybody taller than you could refer to someone you had to look up to, someone in power - and it was wise not to trust blindly in authority. 

Once he started deconstructing the Rules, he found the values they espoused agreed with Federation values more often than not. The problem with the older generation was that they defined profit too literally. To them, profit could never mean anything but latinum. Nog preferred a broader interpretation of profit as anything that made life better ... like Ensign Priand. 

Ensign Priand. She was intent on whatever it was that was on her Padd. She was concentrating, unconsciously sticking out the tip of her tongue when she came across something difficult. Nog found it adorable. He should make a move. Rule 9 said: Instinct plus opportunity equals profit, and his instincts were definitely telling him to take advantage of the opportunity. And yet there was a call to duty in Rule 56: Pursue profit; women come later. 

Perhaps even the Rules of Acquisition were going to fail him. 

A shadow fell over him. He blinked and looked to find Dr. Bashir and Garak blocking the light as they put their trays down on the table and sat to join him. 

"Good morning, Doctor, Garak" he said. Though he was unhappy to share his table with Garak, he felt it was beneath him to be rude.

Dr. Bashir slumped into a chair. "Hello, Nog."

Nog looked at them more closely. Although the doctor rarely took as much pride in shining his shoes and starching his uniform as Nog did, he at least took pains to look presentable. Presentable didn't describe him now, with his rumpled shirt, unshaven beginnings of a beard, and the weird dark bags humans got below their eyes. He wondered what the doctor and Garak had been up to, to put them in such a state. Garak was as put together as always, but Nog thought he looked paler than normal and not altogether healthy. He hoped Garak didn't pass out at the table. What would Ensign Priand think?

Nog took another bite of his gruel. There were no Ferengi dishes in the replicators. No Bajoran or Cardassian ones either, nor any of the cuisines familiar to him from Deep Space 9 . He'd asked the Chief for advice, and he'd recommended porridge, his own favourite breakfast. Nog wondered if he'd ordered the right thing. It tasted like glue. 

They sat in silence. The doctor picked at his scone, Nog plodded through his gruel, and Garak buried his face in the steam swirling up from his tea as if it were a warm blanket.

Nog cast about for a topic of conversation. He didn't know if it were his father's habit of filling silences to cover his own awkwardness or his uncle's insistence on breaking silences to uncover other people's secrets, but whatever its origin the silence settled on him like a wool sweater on bare skin. He shifted slightly in his seat (the doctor was blocking his view of Ensign Priand) – and inspiration struck. 

He abandoned his gruel and turned with enthusiasm to the doctor. "Actually, doctor, I wanted to talk to you about something if you don't mind." 

Julian winced at what Nog realised was a rather loud tone and looked at him, red eyes cloudy with exhaustion. "As long as it's not about the hearing, fine."

"Perfect. It's not. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask your advice." Rule of Acquisition #59 stated that free advice was seldom cheap, and though Nog knew this to be true (or he wouldn't be eating this gruel now and lying later to the Chief about how much he liked it), he was willing to undertake a significant debt to advance a successful pursuit of Ensign Priand.

The doctor absently tangled his fingers in his hair and yawned. "My advice? On what?"

"Talking to women. Or men. Or non-binary gendered beings. Anyone you're interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with. I can't help but observe your success in this area, doctor. Apart from a few well-known catastrophes, of course. No one's perfect, after all."

The doctor stared him. Nog could practically see him working out which romantic failures had made it into station folklore before he pulled himself back to the present. 

"Well, thanks? I mean, all I can tell you is to be yourself. Just act naturally. Obviously you shouldn't come on too strong, but I find a direct approach usually works well. Why, is there someone specific you're interested in?"

"There's a young lady, yes, whose acquaintance I would like to further." 

Nog noted with alarm that while the doctor was oblivious, Garak had caught the brief flicker of his eyes towards Ensign Priand. Garak hadn't been so obvious as to turn and look, but Nog had no doubt he knew exactly where and at whom Nog had been looking. 

"Is that the kind of advice you were looking for?" Julian asked.

Nog opened his mouth but was saved the burden of lying when another Starfeet doctor, a human woman Nog didn't know, advanced on their table with a smile. 

"Hi Julian, you got a minute?"

Nog noted with amusement how the doctor sat up straighter and adjusted his collar, his face suffused with a sudden boyish excitement.

"For you? Always. Kath, these are my colleagues, Ensign Nog and Garak. Garak, Nog, this is Doctor Kath Caplan, a friend of mine from Starfleet Academy."

Garak's eyes were cautious and lidded. Nog guessed that Garak had been as ignorant of the woman's existence as Nog, but likely more annoyed by the doctor's omission. 

"Indeed? And are we to hope for stories from Dr. Bashir's misspent youth?"

Doctor Caplan smiled. "I might be persuaded. Why do you call him Dr. Bashir? Julian uses his first name with everyone, even the professors at the academy."

"A title confers respect."

"But a name confers warmth."

"Ah, but we are a cold-blooded people. First names are rarely used, especially in public."

"And in private?" She leaned a little closer.

Nog didn't miss how fascinating this friend of the doctor's found Garak, and neither did the doctor.

"It took me three years of weekly lunches before I even knew he _had_ a first name," Doctor Bashir said, attempting to insert himself into the conversation. Doctor Caplan merely raised her eyebrows questioningly at Garak.

"He's not as smart as his augmentations would lead you to believe," Garak replied, a sly smile spreading across his lips.

She bestowed a smirk on Garak and then – reluctantly it seemed to Nog – turned back to the doctor.

"Actually, Julian, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about."

"My slowness?" he said, glaring at Garak.

"No, your hearing."

That got the doctor's full attention. He pouted and showed a sudden interest in his breakfast. "Not that."

Doctor Caplan pulled out a chair and sat on it, facing him. "Yes, that. What have you done to prepare for it?"

"There's nothing to prepare."

"Don't be ridiculous. You were always like this. It's like you're looking for a fight, if not punishment." She turned to Nog and Garak. "Don't you agree?" she asked, her expression suggesting they had better.

"Certainly one should use whatever means are at one's disposal. I have expostulated with the doctor repeatedly on this point," said Garak in his usual, careful manner.

Nog wasn't sure if he agreed with Garak, but he couldn't deny that the doctor had been complacent. All the senior staff had talked about it. He knew what _he_ would do if he were in the doctor's position.

"What you need is a lawyer. No Ferengi would enter a legal arena without proper advice," he said.

"It's not that kind of proceeding. I won't have a representative."

Doctor Caplan shook her head. "Yes, but your friend is right. You need advice on what to say and what not to say."

The doctor got huffy. "I plan on telling the truth."

"I hoped that you had given up your naive belief in a single truth by now, doctor," said Garak. "The architecture of truth that emerges will be built on the facts that are laid down. It doesn't appear out of thin air."

"You have smart friends. You should listen to them," Doctor Caplan advised.

"You included?"

"Me especially. I have an idea, and I want you to consider it, okay?"

The doctor wiped his hands on his napkin and threw it on the table. "Fine, seeing as I don't have a choice."

"You don't. But first you need a break. I've time off and holosuite credits to burn. What do you say?"

The doctor glanced over at Garak. 

"Go on, doctor," said Garak. "If you remember, I've a meeting this afternoon."

"All right," he said, pushing his chair back and standing. His abandoned enthusiasm was returning to his face.

Doctor Caplan also stood. She gave Nog and Garak polite nods, but her gaze lingered on the Cardassian. "Nice to meet you both. I'll have to track you down later to tell you those stories." 

They left. Garak followed their departure, and Nog wondered what he was thinking. He also wondered how it was that he had found himself alone with Garak, yet again. He could leave, but Nog wasn't one to retreat. Instead, he launched a delicate offensive.

"Shouldn't you be getting some rest? You look like a glunk worm after a rain."

Garak smiled, the edges of his teeth showing, and Nog knew he'd seen right through his motives. Rule of Acquisition #48 flashed through his mind: _The bigger the smile, the sharper the knife._

To Nog's relief, Garak kept his smile within bounds and rose from his seat. "Quite right. By the way, Ensign, the good doctor - though an excellent person – succeeds in his romantic endeavours in spite of his approach. Having no difficulty attracting others, he tends to dismiss its importance. If I were to give you advice, it would be this: listen. Too many people focus on the outcome and neglect the steps that lead to it, be it to amuse your partner or to put them at ease ... or to make them uncomfortable. " 

Garak punctuated his point with an unblinking burning look that soon had Nog squirming and Garak chuckling. Point made, he bowed in his theatrical way and left. 

Nog felt like a vole who'd been staring at a bright light. He shook his head to clear it. He stirred his spoon through the cold and congealed porridge, thinking about what Garak had said. Small steps. He could do that.

Reaching a decision, he stood, tugging on his shirt to iron out any wrinkles. He returned his tray and then marched straight up to Ensign Priand's table.

He stood there awkwardly until she noticed him.

Nog took a deep breath. "Hello, Ensign Priand, isn't it?"

Her smile was tentative but not unwelcoming. "That's right, Ensign ...?"

"Ensign Nog of the Defiant. We met briefly at the bar."

"Of course. How are you? " 

He saw her glance longingly at her book. Listen; small steps, he reminded himself: Keep the conversation going; talk about something that interests her. "Very well, thank you. I'm sorry to interrupt your reading. Is it any good? What is it?"

She held it up for his inspection. "An earth author, actually – Earle Stanley Gardiner. Doctor Crusher leant it to me."

"Perry Mason?" Nog asked. He thought that was right. 

"Oh, you know him?"

Seeing her face light up, Nog could have kissed Odo and his love of old Earth detectives.

"Yes, actually. A friend of mind is a big fan."

"Would you like to sit down? I was just going to get another coffee. I'm a beast without it."

"Allow me."

Nog almost danced over to the replicator, smiling and nodding at everyone as he pushed through the crowd. The dirty looks he got slipped off him, filled as he was with a glowing warmth and pity for anyone who wasn't as happy as he was.

He was glad Garak hadn't dropped dead on the Defiant after all.


	9. Chapter 9

_Garak_

Garak tried not to hurry back to his quarters. He prided himself on his patience, the one virtue he could preach, and he did not want to admit his current lack of it. He slowed his steps and made himself observe his surroundings so that there was no outward sign of his preoccupation. He did, however, allow himself to slide his hand inside his pocket, to wind it around his possession and to caress it as one would the robes of a saint, in silent supplication. 

It had been easy enough to arrange. Black markets, like voles in the ductwork, lurked in every ship and station in the quadrant. A Starbase was no exception, especially one burdened with rations and despair, bracketed by war and teetering on the edge of Federation space. Not so obvious or vulgar as Quark's, but easy enough to find for those with sufficient interest and latinum. 

He had to applaud the system – simple, as all good systems were, and bold. Orders were made on normal Starfleet requisition forms, seeming - unless one knew exactly what to look for - like hundreds of other requests for soap or medicine or toothpaste. Delivery was equally simple, and equally bold. His order had appeared alongside his breakfast, and even Garak, for all his experience with such things, could not tell that it was not what it appeared to be. 

He'd ordered it right under Julian's nose, and though he had not quite dared to try it, he had taken pains to mention it and bring it to Julian's attention. He chastised himself for it afterwards. It was a childish response, rooted in guilt over what Julian would say if he knew. Julian would be disappointed, and disappointment, as he knew all too well, stung sharper than a knife in the back.

He thought of Julian's expression on discovering his transgression, the disillusion and the disgust. The thought of it pulled the corners of his own mouth down into a scowl. What else could he do? How else could he function? He saw no other way forward, no other path through the maelstrom of shit that the universe had decided to fling at him.

He felt like shit, too, after enduring that hellish evening of Klingon puerility. The racket and roar of it had battered his brain, and although he'd barely eaten and barely drunk (nevertheless giving the appearance of eating and drinking a great deal), he'd still woken with a pounding, blood-wine soaked head and a stomach full of sodden gagh.

At least he could console himself with success. Depressing as it was to contemplate, he now had a refuge should Starfleet choose to persecute him. He had alluded to his difficulty when talking with Martok at the end of the evening, and Martok – recognising a valuable resource and not giving a fuck for Starfleet's opinion - had offered him a position on his ship, should it become necessary. Fetid and foul it would undoubtedly be, but at least it would allow him to keep fighting for Cardassia's freedom.

He looked up. A group of officers gossiping in the corridor gave him cool glances as he approached, not bothering to move out of the way, so that he had to press against the wall to pass. He was surprised by how much the animosity on the Starbase disturbed him. He had faced much worse from the Bajorans on Deep Space 9, but it had lessened over the years, and during the last few months on the Defiant he had experienced a level of acceptance and camaraderie alien to his experience. 

He brooded on it until he returned to his quarters, then violently pushed it out of his mind. There was a reason Tain had warned him against sentiment. What did it matter whether people accepted him? Why should he care? 

Garak felt his heart beating thick in his chest. He needed to calm himself, to follow his routine and focus on the practical. He took a moment to compose himself, and then began by sweeping the room for listening devices, as he did every time they were left unoccupied. He'd found a new one just two days ago. Compliments of Admiral Forester, he suspected. Rather than remove it, he had tampered with it, to make it appear as if it had malfunctioned. It still transmitted a signal but sent only fragmented words and garbled static. 

He noted it had neither been repaired nor replaced. Garak sniffed. He ought to report them to Forester. Though he was glad he did not have to devote time he did not have to disabling or disposing of another device, he was offended by the lack of professionalism. 

He did another, visual, inspection of the quarters and then set about tidying them. The quiet hum of the silence soothed him. Brought up as he was, trained as he was, he could never truly relax unless he was alone. Even Julian's company exhausted him. He yawned, and unconsciously his eyes drifted over to the bed. Perhaps he could afford a little sleep. Besieged though he was, he would accomplish nothing without rest. 

And if he were going to indulge in rest, then why not indulge in indulgence? The words brought forth the memory of his eighth birthday. Cardassians used an octal system and birthdays falling on eight-years tended to extravagance. Garak's eighth birthday had lacked the festivities and feasting lavished on other children – he was, after all, not only from the service class but from its lowest echelons, a barely-tolerated bastard – and yet the day had still been special to him. He'd had a day free of study and chores, and Mila had baked him a chocolate cake, all for himself.

When he asked Mila if he could have another cake on his ninth birthday, she shook her head. At his disappointment, she had laid a kind hand on his head, then bent down and whispered that their kind could indulge rarely, but should do so extravagantly, and slipped him a piece of candy. 

The memory galvanized him. He strode across the room to the control panel and ratcheted up the heat. Then, rations be damned, he jimmied the shower to produce a cascade of musty but gloriously scalding water. Luxuriating after, he indulged in a pill and a mug of Julian's thick hot chocolate, then collapsed into bed. 

He fell into a deep and untroubled sleep, a rarity even before the war. Even more unusual was to wake without a jagged pain in his head, rested and refreshed. He thought darkly of Quark. The Ferengi didn't know how lucky he was to be so far out of Garak's reach. Whatever substance Quark had foisted on him must have been stuffed with chalk, if this was how the real drug could make him feel. 

Garak checked the chronometer. An hour to the meeting. He dressed and ate, then sat and reviewed the feed from his own listening device. As he suspected, there was little but silence. He'd had no opportunity to put it inside the meeting room itself, and no time to adjust it so that it could pick up voices through the wall from its hiding place in the corridor. It was not a total loss, however.

Only senior offices had access to the meeting room, and a security clearance was required to unlock it. Chance and the heavy bark of a Commander Stetsyuk had delivered to Garak a godsend, a high level security code.

He glanced again at the chronometer and cursed. His infiltration of Starfleet's electronic inner echelon would have to wait. 

As he made his way to the meeting, he forced his mind to other matters. No good would come from fretting about an inevitable delay. It would be tomorrow at the earliest before he would have the time and privacy to dig into the computer systems, and there were other problems to solve.

Julian, for example. The doctor had dug his heels in the sand and refused to think or talk about the hearing, for reasons Garak could not understand. He could accept that Julian's values and perspectives differed from his own. He could accept that Julian's approach to life was fundamentally unlike his own. What he could not accept was Julian being banished from Starfleet and from Garak's life.

This left Garak to make his own plans. He had already set the preliminaries in place but was hesitant to proceed unless there were no other option. Julian would disapprove – more than disapprove – if he found out. He would be suspicious, if nothing else. Garak was willing to put up with that disapproval if it meant Julian's continued existence in his life. That did not mean he was averse to a solution that did not involve Julian shouting at him.

Perhaps Doctor Kaplan could bully Julian into taking up arms. It was more likely she would pick up a sword on his behalf. She had Julian's brashness, and his integrity. 

She also his charm. He had not missed the invitation in her eyes as she had walked away ... 

"This is a restricted area."

Garak sighed, unsurprised but still disheartened by the hostility. "If you'll check, you'll see I'm expected for duty. Level 3, Room D302. My name is Garak."

The guard grunted as he confirmed the entry, then inspected Garak carefully. "What are you carrying in your pocket? You're not allowed to bring any weapons into this sector." His hand inched towards his phaser.

Garak made a show of slowly drawing the offending item out of his pocket and holding it up for the guard's approval. 

"Satisfied?" he asked. The guard, unsmiling, waved him through. Garak wondered what the guard would think – more importantly what his superiors would think - if he knew that Garak had walked past with no less than three concealed weapons, and that the mints were not all that they seemed.

He found room D302 and went in. He had been expecting Admiral Forester and his aides. Instead, there were only a small group of officers, each ensconced at a desk with a computer console. A man in his thirties, a lieutenant, approached with a smile that promised nothing pleasant. Garak wondered what new torture awaited him.

"Elim Garak? You've been assigned to work under me."

Garak inclined his head slightly. To a Cardassian, the gesture lacked both deference and respect, but the human wouldn't know that. He preferred his insults to be more subtle than the lieutenant's, who had neither proffered his name nor offered to introduce the room's other occupants. Not that it mattered. Garak kept track of the personnel stationed on and passing through the Starbase, and he already knew quite a few interesting things about Forester's flag lieutenant, Philip Ho.

Lieutenant Ho pointed to an empty terminal. "That's your workspace. I'll expect you here promptly at 8:00 every morning, but you're not to come here unsupervised. Understood?"

"It's been several days since I've worked on anything. May I ask what's come in since then?" Garak asked instead of answering.

"Everything you are required to look at is on your terminal."

Garak inclined his head again, and was pleased to see the petty triumph on the lieutenant's face. If he thought Garak humiliated, all the better. 

Garak settled down and the terminal and keyed in his official access code. He allowed his face no expression as the assigned work appeared on the screen, but inwardly his gut wrenched in surprise. He had expected his work to be supervised and his access to information curtailed, but this? To give him the lowly job of checking the computer's translations of routine transmissions? This would cost lives, and not Cardassian ones. This could even, conceivably, cost them the war. 

The shit, it appeared, was getting deeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the long delay between chapters but work is crazy (and will continue to be for some time) but finding spare moments to write is a pleasure. I also spent forever editing this chapter trying to get the words just write. When you write less frequently, it takes longer to get into the right head space.


	10. Chapter 10

It was nearing two a.m. when Julian made it back to their quarters, his mood bright, basking in the memories of the day. It was not easy for him to forget. His mind was a mirror, constantly reflecting the reality around him. It took a lot for the images to blur, for him to be able to just enjoy himself. He'd had that today, and he was grateful. Kath had treated him to a whole day of hiking through the ice caves of Andor. They'd warmed up afterwards with an overpriced but non-replicated Aldebaran soup and fresh-baked bread from the Starbase's only restaurant before meeting up with some of her friends at the bar. 

It was a long night, and a loud one. If he hadn't been enhanced he would have fallen asleep over his beer after suffering through the Klingon party the night before. That had been the other thing, the other reason he was humming quietly as he keyed in his entry code. His augmentations hadn't come up, not even once. They'd talked about idiotic things and snorted beer out their noses, everyone eager to build a wall of forgetfulness to blot out the ugliness of war on display around them. Julian wondered if Kath had told her friends that they'd better be nice to the augment, or whether it genuinely didn't bother them. Two drinks in, he decided he didn't care much either way. Being treated as normal, especially when you knew you weren't, wasn't a thing to be questioned.

The door to his quarters slid open and Julian winced at the near tectonic hiss it made. Wondering if anything on the station worked right, he stepped inside.

Garak bolted upright. 

Julian froze, staring at the highly illegal disruptor pointed straight at his head. 

Garak blinked, then scowled and slipped the disruptor back under his pillow. 

Julian shut the door behind him. "You're not technically allowed to have that, you know."

Garak retreated back under the blanket and turned innocent eyes on him. "Have what?"

In all the time Julian had known Garak, he'd never caught him asleep before –not _actually_ asleep. Garak considered it perfectly reasonable to feign sleep to avoid conversation. The slightest noise woke him, even a shift in Julian's breathing. The fact that he hadn't heard Julian humming outside in the corridor and hadn't woken up until the door had shuddered open made Julian's suspicions flare like a fire in the forest. A very dry forest. And yet, Garak had agreed that destroying the drugs was for the best. And the drugs were gone, dissolved before his eyes back into their constituent compounds. And a thorough rifling of their quarters had turned up nothing else. 

Perhaps Garak's paranoia was rubbing off on him. Why should he leap to that conclusion? Perhaps Garak was sick. He'd been pushing himself hard, his immune system was weak, and new viruses docked with every ship. Julian sat on the bed and lifted his hand to Garak's temple. 

Garak examined Julian as Julian examined him, then gave his pronouncement. "Either the holosuite, the company or the advice did you good."

"It did." No temperature and a normal pulse. "And you? How did the meeting with Admiral Parker go?"

Garak groaned and closed his eyes. "Even less well than I anticipated. Parker dispatched his flag lieutenant, who delivered nothing but a load of routine transmissions for me to 'work' on."

"I'm sorry." Garak's hair was longer than he usually wore it and dishevelled from sleep. He claimed it was too difficult to cut in the cramped confines of the Defiant, but Julian suspected that vanity, along with everything else, took a back seat during war. He liked it, especially the way it came undone when Garak slept. Julian pushed a loose strand back from his face and then, remembering the kiss –was it really only yesterday? - trailed a soft finger down Garak's ear ridge. Garak's lips parted and his eyes snapped open. Julian moved his finger lower, to the top of Garak's shoulder ridge.

"Julian ..." Garak grabbed Julian's hand, stopping its descent even as his ridges flushed in anticipation of the touch. Garak intertwined their fingers gently, soothing away the sting of the rejection, his eyes heavy with sorrow. He brought Julian's hand to his lips and mouthed against it, " _Rain mars the water._ "

Julian remembered the poem, as Garak knew he would. Remembered discussing the imagery of the life-bringing rain churning the dust, striking the windows and shattering the placid stillness of the lake. If they changed their relationship there were no promises. Julian let the words sink into him. It was as close to a delcaration of love as he would get ever from Garak. He didn't make things awkward by voicing his own feelings. Garak knew.

He squeezed Garak's hand, let go, and stood up. He busied himself getting things for the shower. "Kath was asking about you."

"Oh?" Garak had sat up in bed and was leaning against the headboard.

"Don't pretend you didn't notice her interest. I don't mind, in case you were wondering."

"How open-minded of you."

"I may have entertained a fantasty about the two of you together."

"I didn't take you for a voyeur, my dear."

Julian gave Garak his most rakish smile and stripped off his shirt, enjoying the way Garak's breath hitched. "I can assure you I was a very active participant. I'm going to shower and then go to bed. I didn't get much sleep last night." He stopped in the doorway to the bathroom and turned back around. "Speaking of which, I forgot. I've got an invitation for tomorrow night, and I thought you might like to come."

Garak made no effort to disguise his appreciation of Julian's naked chest but didn't let it interfere with his decision. "That depends. Who has invited you where?"

"It's more of a general invitation. Commander Riker's throwing a get together. You know Worf and Miles served on the Enterprise, right?"

"Yes, I was aware. Are you aware that it's not particularly good manners to invite a guest to another person's party?"

"You're a very entertaining guest. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't mind, but I'll ask if you like?"

"That would be appreciated."

Julian stripped off his trousers, bending over unnecessarily. He wrapped a towel around himself, winked at Garak, and then fished his comm badge from his uniform. "Bashir to Chief O'Brien."

" _Hey, Julian. What's up?"_

"Is it all right if I bring Garak to Commander Riker's thing tomorrow?"

" _Don't see why not. The commander said to invite all the senior crew. You both coming, then?_ "

"Yes, we'll see you there. Have a good night."

" _You too. O'Brien out."_

"There, you see?" Though well-masked, Julian saw the flicker of surprise and pleasure dance across Garak's face at Miles' response. Julian sometimes suspected his passion for Cardassia was no more than a sublimated desire to belong, something his birth, his father, and his exile had denied him. Though more estranged from his people than ever, the crew of the Defiant had begun to accept him as one of their own. Julian wondered how Garak felt about it, though he knew it was useless to ask.

"I wasn't aware you knew anyone on the Enterprise."

Julian suspected that was a lie. "Commander Data. We met when the Enterprise-D stopped at the station a few years ago, and we've corresponded off and on since then."

"What do you talk about, literature?" Garak looked genuinely interested. 

"No, it's never come up. We mostly talk about science. But now I'm curious. I don't even know if he reads literature, for fun I mean. There's this old Earth story called _Do Androids Dream of Electronic Sheep?_ Maybe I'll ask him about it, if there's time. I promised Kath I'd talk to him about the hearing."

Garak's eyes finally shifted from the towel around Julian's hips to his eyes. "Oh? And why does Dr. Caplan wish you to do so?"

Julian shrugged, the motion causing the towel and Garak's eyes to slip downwards. "I have to submit a written report about the incident. She wants me to review every single case history on record to see what worked and what didn't."

"And?"

"And what?" The towel slipped another inch and Julian hitched it up and retied it.

Garak sighed. "And why do you need to talk to Commander Data? Surely you could find and parse the data as easily as he could."

"I know that, it's just - most people, once they get over the fact of my being an augment, seem to file it away and forget what any of it means. I had a major crush on Kath at the Academy. Can you blame me that I didn't want to remind her that I'm basically a walking computer?"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"You understand that your opinions on most things don't align with the Federation's. For which I thank you, by the way."

"You're welcome. Now please, stop showing off and go shower before you wreck my resolve."

Julian smiled, but did as he was told.


	11. Chapter 11

Nog tugged his uniform straight. He tried to ignore the prickling sensation underneath his collar, doing his best not to squirm. It was the starch. He'd taken the uniform to a professional cleaner and now it was as stiff as a stuffed chair and as itchy as a Targellian flea. He snuck a look at himself in the mirror and saw a model Ensign looking back. Definitely worth the latinum. Rule of Acquisition #241: Never underestimate the importance of the first impression. 

It was his first time on the Enterprise, and it was as if he had stepped into a fairy tale castle. He loved the Defiant, with its square sturdiness and relaxed atmosphere that only time and worn out upholstery could bring, but he worshipped the Enterprise with her trim lines and the filigree that gleamed like new-minted latinum. He could see himself now: Ensign Nog of the Enterprise, the flagship of the Federation. Warmed by his fantasy, he returned his attention to Ensign Priand – _Luka_ – and Doctor Crusher. 

" – and I was thinking maybe we should try varying the oxygen levels."

Luka struck her tongue rapidly against her against her teeth – the Peliar equivalent of scrunching their face in confusion. "But I don't understand how that – oh, you're thinking of the reaction time?"

"Yes, exactly. We can - " Dr. Crusher seemed suddenly to remember that Nog was there. She caught herself and bestowed a charming smile of apology on him. "But maybe we should talk about it tomorrow and stop boring Ensign Nog with shop talk."

"That's quite all right, ladies," he said, then blushed as he saw a brief flicker of amusement pass between the women at the designation. That was what he got from learning his manners in a bar. 

They were interrupted by the door. Conversations stopped and curious heads turned around to see the late arrival. Nog inhaled sharply. He had hoped to meet Captain Picard, though he felt like he had grub worms wriggling in his stomach – the man was famous, and not just in Starfleet. 

"Apologies for my late arrival. There seem to be an increasing number of reports these days; one of the lesser perils of our times." Picard's smile was the warm but practiced smile of someone accustomed to rather than comfortable with the spotlight.

Riker, just as accustomed but considerably more comfortable in the position, stepped forward with an impish grin and a theatrical flourish to his left. "Allow me to make the introductions. Commander Worf and Chief Edward Miles O'Brien, formerly of the Enterprise."

Picard joined in the light laughter, his smile shifting from polite to pleased . He grasped their hands in turn, beaming. "Gentlemen, I am very happy to welcome you on board once more."

Riker continued with the introductions, working his way around the room until he turned to Nog

Nog snapped to attenion. "Sir, it's an honour to meet you sir."

Picard shook his hand. Nog reminded himself to grip back firmly and not to hold on too long. He was not a fan of the human custom, having encountered too many sweaty, clammy palms, but he was happy to make an exception, unsurprised to find that the Captain's hand was dry. 

"I understand that you're the first Ferengi in Starfleet, Ensign. Is that correct?" Picard was staring at him, and Nog felt the force of personality in the gaze. Though their eyes only met for a few seconds, Nog felt visible in a way he rarely did.

"Yes, sir," he replied, standing even straighter.

"That's quite an accomplishment. You should be proud of yourself."

"Hear, hear!" said Miles from across the room, raising his glass. The others followed him in the impromptu toast.

Nog blushed down to his toes, thrilled not only with the compliment but with the admiring look Luka gave him. Perhaps taking pity on him, or perhaps merely having fulfilled his duty, Picard saved him from further embarassment by excusing himself.

"A pleasure to meet you, Ensign. Beverly, a word?"

They slipped off, and the room once again like a tidepool broke into shallow groups. Nog found himself alone with Luka. He exhaled.

"Wait here," said Luka. She went off and returned a moment later to offer him a large, citrus-orange drink. "Will this help? I don't know what it is, but it _looks_ comforting."

"It's a Samarian sunset. They shouldn't really be mixed until right before you drink them – you see how it's all one colour? That happens when they've been sitting too long. It should be swirls of orange and red and yellow." Recollecting himself, he quickly added, "But it's still good. I mean, thank you. For thinking of it."

"How do you know so much about drinks?"

"My uncle owns a bar, on Deep Space 9. That's where I grew up. I helped out a lot, when I was younger."

"That sounds so interesting. Nothing ever happened where I grew up on Peliar. That's why I joined Starfleet."

"You must have done well, to have ended up on the Enterprise. Do you like it?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes. Doctor Crusher is brilliant, and very kind. She is not what I expected, though."

"Oh?"

Luka checked to make sure no one was standing near them, and then said, "On Peliar, our hierarchies are very strict. A doctor of her position and experience would never be friendly with an Ensign. Respectful, yes. Dutiful, yes. But not so – so casual. It baffles me, sometimes, how humans interact. On my world, you always know where your place is, which means you always know how to act towards someone, what's expected. It sometimes seems like humans don't follow any rules at all. I find it very stressful sometimes, especially meeting new people."

Nog didn't really understand – the only status on Ferenginar was wealth – but he understood being different. "The Chief is like that – casual."

Luka pointed discreetly. "That is him? Talking to Commander Laforge?"

Nog nodded, taking another sip of the Samarian Sunset, which had turned flat after having sat for too long.

"He seems agitated."

Miles O'Brien's hands were hard at work, gesticulating fiercly as he talked.

"He's describing getting a stuck vole out of a pipe in the Defiant."

"You're just making that up."

"I am not! Ferengi hearing is the best in the quadrant. Look, see? He's showing how he tried to pull it out by the tail." 

The Chief had one foot raised as if braced on a wall, his hands stretched forward as if tugging on a rope. Then he mimed falling backward, and something landing on top of him.

"He got it out, but I don't know who squealed more, the vole or the Chief."

Luka laughed. "Can you hear everybody? Isn' it all just babble and jumbled together?"

"No, I hear it in – it's like different streams, or pockets. I never tried to describe it before. It's all _there_ but I can turn individual bits on or off."

"Like a communications panel?"

"Not exactly. I don't record what I hear. If I'm not paying attention, I can't listen to the conversation later."

"Tell me what everyone's talking about," she whispered, like they were school children embarking on a prank.

Nog bet she had never pulled a prank in her life. She didn't even know what a good prank was. He thought she was adorable. And he was happy to oblige her by showing off his prowess.

"Worf and Dax are talking to Commander Laforge and Doctor Crusher about Klingon weddings – they're getting married, you know."

"It seems an unsual match. She's a Trill, isn't she?"

"Whose last host had a blood-bond or whatever with a bunch of Klingons."

"I've never talked to a joined Trill. What was she like before she joined?"

Nog shrugged. "I don't know. I only know her as Dax. Captain Sisko knew her previous host, though." 

"Do you think he'll make it tonight?"

"Probably not. I've hardly seen him since we docked, he's been in so many meetings." 

It was true, but not the reason for Sisko's absence. Nog knew – because Jake had needed someone to confide in – that Sisko still held Picard and the Enterprise accountable for precipitating the battle that had cost him his wife. Though his animosity no longer raged it had not cooled so much as congealed into a settled dislike. 

Nog pointed, continuing on with the game. "Commander Riker is trying to convince Counselor Troi to slip away to the arboretum wth him, but she's reminding him that he's the host. And Doctor Bashir's asking Commander Data whether he dreams, which apparently he does, although his dreams don't sound any more interesting than anyone else's. 

"And Captain Picard? What is he saying to your Cardassian?"

Nog blinked. He hadn't seen the two break off. He wondered who had approached whom. He couldn't think why Picard would want to speak to Garak, but then why would Garak want to speak to Picard? They were sequestered in a corner of the room, talking quietly enough that he had to strain to hear.

"Can you hear?" Luka whispered after a bit. "What are they talking about?"

"I'm not sure, but I think ... I think they're talking about Cardassian poetry."

What he didn't say was that he was certain he had heard Captain Picard asking Garak for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, work and family continue to require whatever spare bits of time come my way. I'll try to get an update out every other week at least. Hope it was worth the wait!


	12. Chapter 12

The corridors were quiet. Garak could hear the faint echo of his footsteps on the faded carpet as he made his way to the docking ring. He suppressed a yawn. The triptacederine, like an overworked motor, could no longer cope with the increasing number of hours Garak was awake and working.

Lietenant Ho – acting, no doubt, under Forester's orders – had buried him under a mountain of routine transmissions with an apology and a suggestion of reassignment if the work were too much. Garak had smiled and said it was fine. He would do whatever he was asked, and do it well. Besides giving the admiral no ammunition with which to shoot him, Garak wanted access to the transmissions, routine as they were. A good intelligence operative – and he had been the best – never discounted nor ignored any information, regardless of the source or the significance. 

So he put in his hours, and took extra doses of triptacerdine, and said nothing.

Then there were his extra-curricular activities. Although there had been no further recordings from the bug he'd planted outside the meeting room – likely it had come loose and been devoured by one of the robotic carpet cleaners that roamed the station like zombified voles – the one piece of information it had gifted him, the high level security code of a station commander, had been more than enough to keep him busy.

He started with the schedules and rosters and unclassified transmissions, then began to probe the more sensitive, more guarded, information. He slipped silently along the busy paths, listening, watching, carefully prying open an unattended file here, a locked door there. It took tedious hours to find his way, and tedious more to cover his trail on the way out, but the work was productive. He uncovered many interesting things, not least of which was the secret of Sisko's foray into the Gamma quadrant and the mission to destroy the ketracel-white facility, but the more he learned, the more he felt that there was something he wasn't seeing, something that didn't add up. 

What was Forester playing at? He read everything by and about the admiral that he could. Nothing he learned about the man helped. He was difficult, yes, sour and unbending and vindictive, continually causing and taking offense. filing or being named in no less than two dozen grievances during his forty plus year tenure. And yet he was not incompetent – far from it. He was known for his decisiveness and bravery, and the commendations were as numerous as the complaints. Garak could not doubt that he was loyal to Starfleet, and that whatever personal enmity he held towards Cardassians (considerable, from what Garak could tell) he was not so blind as to not see the damage that would result from keeping Garak out of the war.

He pondered, but he was no closer to an answer when he reached the Enterprise. Despite the lateness of the hour, Picard had sent Data to escort him to the bridge. Garak approved. A man who would not trust the person from whom he sought help might actually be worth helping.

"Good evening, Commander." Garak's greeting was polite but disinterested. Their brief discourse at the party had been dull, to say the least, though in all fairness the andoird had been held hostage to Julian's endless questions. Personally, Garak could think of fewer topics of less interest than whether Commander Data's toenails grew or grew not.

"Good evening. Captain Picard has requested that I escort you to the bridge."

"Of course." As he followed Data, Garak wondered if he were capable of subtlety, or if he traded solely in the obvious. Picard, certainly, not only understood subtlety but spoke it as if he'd been reared on rokassa juice and regova eggs. How artfully he had led a willing Garak into a discussion of poetry, how skillfluly he had lamented the difficulties of translation, how innocuously he had pressed for Garak's assistance!

As they made their way down the much cleaner corridors of the Enterprise, Garak studied the android's preternaturally calm countenance. From what he knew, Data did not have any emotions – but that did not necessarily mean he would be predictable. A little testing of the waters could be interesting, even enjoyable.

"Tell me, Commander, apart from the opinion you must hold as a Starfleet officer, what do you think of this war?"

Data tilted his head - much like a Cardassian would, Garak thought, but oddly inverted. 

"I do not know what you mean. Are you referring to my opinion on the war's progression or success, whether I have emotional reactions to the current situation, or whether I believe the war is just?"

"All or none. Do you believe in justice, then?"

"I believe in its belief."

Garak laughed, amused. "An admirable answer."

"Do you believe in justice?"

"I believe in many things."

"Including justice?"

"My people do."

"That does not mean that you share their belief."

"Would I admit it if I didn't? But l let us say, for the sake of discussion, that we both believe in justice, that our peoples do, and that the Dominion does as well. Both will claim justice for their side, but who is right?"

Data considered. "I find that questions that cannot be answered quantitatively cannot be answered at all, only argued."

The turbolift stopped. Garak smiled as he stepped onto the bridge. Perhaps Data was worth more consideration after all: a project for another day. 

"Which is why Cardassians place such value on conversation. Alas, though the argument promises to be entertaining, it will have to wait."

They made polite goodbyes. His duty done, Data turned back to the turbolift, and Garak entered Picard's ready room. The Captain stood to greet him as he entered, extending his hand. 

"Mr. Garak, thank you for joining me. Would you care for a drink? Tea perhaps?"

"I don't suppose the replicator is programmed with any Cardassian drinks? Ah. Then perhaps I might trouble you for a cup of hot chocolate."

"Computer, one earl grey tea, hot. One cup of Betzed hot chocolate."

The drinks materialised. Picard held out the hot chocolate. "Counsellor Troi is a connoisseur, and I can do no better than to recommend her favourite."

Garak inclined his head politely. He would have preferred Delavian, but it wasn't worth the fuss. His attention was drawn to a large, open book on a side table. A real book, old and well-worn. Garak turned a few pages, enjoying the feel of paper between his fingers. 

Picard, watching him, commented. "A famous Earth playwright from many centuries ago, William Shakespeare. Have you heard of him?"

Garak looked up and, smiling, stood and declaimed in a voice well-suited to the stage. 

"There is a tide in the affairs of men.  
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;  
Omitted, all the voyage of their life  
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.  
On such a full sea are we now afloat,  
And we must take the current when it serves,  
Or lose our ventures."

Picard's eyebrows raised in a mixture of surprise and approval. "Are you a fan of Shakespeare, then?"

"I would not go so far as to say that; however, I have found much to admire in his work." He never had and never would admit as much to Julian, but then Julian was someone to argue with while Picard was someone to persuade. 

Picard nodded. An enthusiast, Garak thought. 

"No one has ever encompassed so much of human nature nor described it so well. And its relevance!" Picard spoke with animation. "He is as relevant today as in his own time. Even more so, I sometimes think. As much ambition, as much greed, as much nobility, as much plotting ..."

He let the words trail off. "Indeed," Garak replied. "Your Shakespeare's plays would not be complete without their villains."

They understood each other. Garak wondered what it was that Picard knew. He would only find out if Picard chose to tell him. Garak was nothing if not pragmatic. Accordingly, he settled himself in one of the plusher chairs, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles over each other. He sipped the hot chocolate – it really was very good, he would have to ask Counsellor Troi for the recipe – and he waited.

Picard paced the room casually, as if strolling. He paused by his desk, then picked up a PADD that was lying on it. Whatever he saw on it seemed to make up his mind for him, for he turned to Garak.

"I am forgetting the reason for your visit. You had kindly offered to help me interpret Cardassian poetry. I hope the offer still stands?"

Garak took another sip of the hot chocolate. "Was there a particular stanza you wished me to explain, Captain?'

Picard passed the PADD to Garak, waiting in silence as he read it.

It was only a single line and its translation, but Garak instantly understood why Picard had felt it necessary to consult him. He read it twice. It was wrong – he felt it was wrong – and yet he could not prove it was wrong.

He passed the PADD back. He pulled in his legs and sat up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his posture as serious as his words.

"Just as much of Shakespeare is based on double meanings and references, Cardassian poetry is based on many more layers, and demands an understanding of the language quite difficult for a non-Cardassian to achieve. Take for example the word srilla. The word most commonly provided by a universal translator is attack. It _can_ mean that, certainly, but it doesn't necessarily. It indicates motion, but not by itself what kind. Is it slow or fast? Friendly or aggressive? In the past or the future? Definite or hypoethetical? Towards or away – or even stationary?"

"I see."

"And yet it is more than this. Kardasi is built on layered sentences. Every word modifies the sentence; every sentence the paragraph; every paragraph modifies the document; and every document modifies the understanding of the whole. You cannot decipher something piecemeal – not meaningfully. Because only with the whole can you begin to decipher individual voices, and that tells you as much as the words, if not more. The exact same sentence, Captain, would mean something different if you knew it was addresseed from a subordinate to a superior, or a superior to a subordinate. One would be a suggestion, the other an order."

Picard was silent for some time, though he had been nodding in agreement as Garak talked. Was it enough, Garak wondered? He felt the urge to fidget, to tap his toes, to pace the room. This was his best, if not his only chance, of geting access to the codes. If he didn't -

"I believe," Picard said at last, "That a deeper study of the source material might be in order."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so it's been a long time since I posted a chapter. If you waited this long, thank you!


	13. Chapter 13

Julian put the final words to his report, re-read it one last time, and sent it off to join the growing body of evidence collected by the Medical Review Committee. Not only had they interviewed Garak and gotten a copy of his medical records, they had also requested submissions from Sisko, Jadzia, and the officers working under Julian's supervision in the infirmary. As the defendant, Julian was entitled to read their testimony, and he didn't tread the murky waters of temptation for long. He read Sisko's first, apprehensive of his judgment given their less than cordial disagreement over Julian's decision, but in the Captain's forcefully concise words he read a measure of respect that touched him more than he cared to admit. 

The praise of Jadzia and his medical staff was expected but no less welcome. Their words and stye differed, but they all said much the same thing. They commended his compassion and dedication while stressing the exhausting conditions under which he worked. 

The transcript of Garak's interview he saved for last. It was masterful, a circular dance of sophistry where Garak managed to convey his conviction of Julian's innocence, scepticism of the hearing's purpose and suspicion of the interviewer's intelligence without ever answering a single question.

He'd just put it down after a second entertaining read through when Kath returned. 

"How'd you get on?" she asked.

Julian got up and stretched. "As well as could be expected. Thanks for the use of your quarters, by the way. It's a lot nicer than the starbase, and a lot roomier than the Defiant." The Genesis was designed for long missions, and with all such ships the designers had put thought into the comfort of the crew. With a ship like the Defiant, intended for short and sharp attacks, the quarters weren't much better than on a Jem Ha'dar ship. 

"You're welcome." She walked over to the replicator and got herself a glass of water, then nodded towards the console. "Have you submitted your report, then?"

"Yes, it's done."

"And I bet you didn't take any of your friends' advice, did you? Didn't try to put it in the proper light?"

"I put down the facts." One of the nurses in their deposition had even questioned the need for the hearing, especially in a time of war. He disagreed. In a time of war, such a hearing was not only necessary, but crucial. It wasn't a perverse desire for punishment or too exacting standards that underlay his conviction, it was the simple recognition that no one should be trusted to judge their own actions over others. 

"I admire your integrity. I don't always agree with it, but I admire it. How do you think it will go?"

Julian shrugged. He'd thought about it until his head spun and got no nearer an answer than a throw of the dice. "Honestly? I don't know. There are too many factors, not the least of which is whether Parker considers this proof of my unsuitability for Starfleet."

"Why would he - wait. Was _Parker_ the one who started that petition demanding your dismissal after your augmentations became public knowledge?!? Julian, you could - you _should_ protest him sitting on the panel!"

Julian had thought about that as well. He shook his head in a resigned negation. "Do you know how hard it is to gather a full panel of medical board officers on a remote starbase during the war? I could wait months for a hearing if I demand another member, and I'm not willing to do that. I already feel like I've been in this kind of useless limbo forever, and it's not even been two weeks."

"But – "

"If there's clear evidence of bias in anything he says or does, I'll appeal." Kath didn't respond, but chewed her lip in the nervous way Julian remembered her doing during exams. He reached out and squeezed her hand. "Don't worry. I won't roll over without putting up a fight for what's right."

Kath snorted. "No, you've always had a strong sense of justice and a disinclination to keep your opinions to yourself. Remember that professor you told off for talking shit about how all Romulans were devious and ruthless?"

"Hinkel. He should never have been allowed to teach. Just because someone's in a position of authority doesn't mean they shouldn't be held accountable. It's probably no wonder my career hasn't been as meteoric as my father hoped."

"It is if you consider that meteors go down, not up, and tend to burn up before they get where they're going. Do you want a drink? A real one?"

They decided on Scotch, the only halfway decently full bottle of real alcohol still left, and then settled on the couch. Julian stretched out with his head tilted back and legs stretched out, Kath curled up against the armrest like a cat. Julian looked over at her fondly.

"You've done well for yourself, though. CMO of the Genesis."

"Thanks. It's not quite what I expected, what with the war and all, but I still can't think of any place I'd rather be. Not back on Earth sitting it out, anyway. It sounds horrible to say it, but there's a part of me that enjoys the constant adrenaline, that feeling of being so alive."

"I don't think you're horrible, and I don't think you're the only person to have felt that way. For me, the worst thing was realising how much of my success has had nothing to do with me. It's easy to save people when you have lots of sleep, lots of staff, lots of resources. When you're exhausted and under fire in an infirmary crowded with the wounded and the power flickering off ..." He shrugged and took another drink of the scotch, staring down. "So I gave up trying, because you can't fail if you don't try."

"But you think that you did fail."

Julian ran frustrated fingers through his hair. "I don't know. It may just be guilt. It may just be arrogance, thinking I can't make mistakes, that I'm above that somehow. At least I finally feel like myself again. I'm doing what I know is right, and I'm willing to face the consequences."

They sat in silence for a while, and then Kath remarked, "I miss the Academy. It's funny, because I couldn't wait to graduate, but now – sometimes I dream I'm back there. It all seems so uncomplicated and happy – probably more than it really was. I was so excited when I got accepted. All of these species from across the Federation, all of us excited and hopeful."

"And horny."

Kath laughed. "That too. Good times. Remember Saken? And Renkal and Toamil?" She paused, then added matter-of-factly, "You know, I did think about hooking up with you at one point, in first year."

"What changed your mind? Me opening my mouth? That usually does it. "

"You know I like talking to you just fine. It was just that by the time I got to know you well enough to consider sleeping with you, you were my friend."

"So were Saken and Renkal and Toamil."

"Yes, but, frankly, Julian, it didn't seem like you had a lot of friends, real friends, except Felix."

Julian remembered the happy but hollow years of the Academy, the loneliness that had followed him everywere, into every loud party, every brief relationship. Even his life with Palis had been lived on the surface, neither of them caring or daring enough to dig any deeper.

Some of his feelings must have shown on his face.

"I'm sorry," said Kath. "I shouldn't've said anything."

"No, it's all right." He realised it was true. It was a memory of pain, not pain itself. "I never had the knack for being around people, for knowing how to relate to them. It took years on the station for people to warm up to me at all; some of them still haven't. During the first two years, Garak was the only one willing to actually talk to me for more than five minutes."

"An unusual first friend."

"Tell me about it." Julian smiled to himself, remembering the excitement, the confused bustle of being shoved into a changing stall, the thrill of overhearing the plans of the Duras sisters.

"What's the deal with Garak, anyway? I've heard a lot of theories and a lot of rumours. "

"Garak is ... complicated."

"He was a spy?"

'He's been many things."

"You're being evasive."

"Sorry, sharing quarters with Garak, he rubs off on me a bit. The truth is there's a lot I don't know about his past, at least the details, and the stuff I do know isn't the sort of thing I can share."

"Where else would he have learned code-breaking but in the Obsidian Order? That is what he's doing for Starfleet, isn't it? "

"It was. For some reason, Admiral Forester doesn't want him involved anymore, and he's been trying to get him sidelined."

Kath untangled her limbs and walked back to the replicator for another round, ruminating as she went. "Maybe he has good reason to. Who knows what they found out about him? If there's any suspicion of him working for the Dominion, Parker's right to sideline him."

"He'd never do that," Julian said, a defensive anger heating his words.

Kath passed him the drink; Julian took it reflexively. 

"You said yourself you don't know a lot about him."

"But I know _him_. I know his character, the good and the bad. Believe me, I don't have rose tinted glasses when it comes to Garak. I don't claim his loyalty is to Starfleet, but then neither does he. His loyalty is to Cardassia, yes, but a free Cardassia. He would never collaborate with the Dominion. Never."

Kath sipped her drink. "If you're right, then why would Parker put on a witch hunt? There's got to be a reason. Do you think Parker could be a Changeling?"

"I don't think so, not with the new measures. Garak doesn't think he's a Changeling either, and he's the most suspicious person I know." 

"I find him more and more intriguing."

"I could tell. You always had a thing for ridges."

"And a nice, solid build."

"Don't tell Garak that."

"Why?"

"Cardassian ideals of beauty lean toward tall and thin. They especially like long necks."

"Are you telling me you're, like, Cardassian porn-star material?"

"I get hit on a lot. Garak came on to me dreadfully when we first me."

"So why didn't you take him up on it? Or did you?"

"I didn't. At first, I thought he was a spy using me to get Starfleet secrets. By the time I figured out he was mostly using me to book runabouts and stave off boredom, we were friends and it would have been too complicated." 

Kath looked thoughtful. "I see. And are you sure you wouldn't mind if Garak and I ...you know? "

"No, why would I?"

"Most people would be jealous."

"I don't think I'm wired that way. I mean, most of my relationships have been open. Relationships are between two people, and each relationship is has its own properties and differences. Whatever happens between Garak and you doesn't change anything between Garak and me."

"Maybe. Or maybe you're just in denial."

"Or maybe you're just judging me by how you'd feel. You're one of the most possessive people I've ever met. You won't even share you food."

"I don't see why I should. Speaking of, do you want anything? I'm feeling hungry again."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! It's not a month between updates! I took a few days off work :)

As the Chief pushed mouthful after mouthful of porridge methodically and phlegmatically into his mouth, Nog was reminded of the holo adventures he and Jake had loved where they had trudged heroically through high drifts of deep snow or sticky pits of thigh deep mud. He suppressed a shudder, glad he had dredged up the courage to confess to the Chief that porridge " _wasn't quite to his liking_ ". Contrary to his fears, his commanding officer had not been offended. Apparently Nog stood with the majority: neither Keiko, Molly nor Yoshi could stomach it either. 

"This yogurt and granola isn't bad," he commented, "Though I'm not sure about the texture. Luka said it's Doctor Crusher's favourite."

"Huh."

"How's the porridge? I mean, compared to what you can get on Deep Space 9?"

"S'alright."

Chief Miles Edward O'Brien was a talented engineer, a dedicated mentor, a dependable officer and a congenial breakfast companion, but as Doctor Bashir had once said, one would have to compare him to a hermit in the desert who'd taken a vow of silence to describe him as a good conversationalist. Nog had trotted out a number of topics, only to be countered with dead-end replies. He'd speculated on the outcome of Doctor Bashir's hearing (" _No telling what'll happen till it happens_ "), extolled Luka's virtues (" _She seems nice_ "), and asked what it was like working on the Enterprise (" _One job's pretty much like another_ ").

The earliness of the hour was against him. It was barely 05:00 and the Replimat held only a few scattered groups of bleary-eyed officers grasping oversized mugs of raktajino as if they were life preservers. He and the Chief would normally still be abed, but they had to finish a set of modifications prior to a new warp core being delivered that afternoon. They had at last figured out the Jem Ha'dar ship, and though they were by no means experts, they would at least be able to get her off the ground. In a way it was too bad; technical problems always engaged the Chief's enthusiasm. 

Nog ate in silence, waiting for inspiration to strike (Rule of Acquisition #14: Sometimes the quickest way to find profits is to let them find you). While he ate, he listened idly to the conversations going on around him. Jake had once told him that humans couldn't really multi-task, that they just flip flopped back and forth between things, and had been rather huffy when Nog had pointed out that this was a significant design flaw, as compared to the Ferengi ability to simply allot different amounts of attention to different things.

Not that everything was worth paying attention to. Morning conversations in the Replimat tended to be lifeless and limp, stale and tired grumblings about supervisors and bitter invectives against the replicated raktajino. Against this backdrop, the hushed mention of Garak's name was almost like a shout in his ear. 

Nog shuttered off the other conversations and within seconds had located the speakers. There were two of them, seated in the far back corner of the room surrounded by empty tables, speaking in quiet voices. The conversation was brief but the brevity only accentuated the gravity of the words. 

Nog glanced at the Chief, who was still stolidly working his way through breakfast, unaware of anything unusual having taken place, which meant that Nog had a choice. He could ignore what he'd heard. He wasn't Garak's friend, he didn't owe him anything, and if Garak had done something wrong, Nog would happily seen him thrown in the brig. And yet ... there was a whisper in his mind that his mistrust of Garak was rooted only in fear and cowardice. Nog pushed the voice down. 

"Chief, I need to talk to you – but not here."

Chief O'Brien might not be a great conversationalist, but he was a dependable ally. Wordlessly, he shovelled in the last mouthful of porridge, drained his cup, and stood up. Nog led them away from the Replimat, eager but wary of being overheard himself. When he was sure they were alone, he relayed what he had heard.

The Chief frowned. "I don't like it."

"We should tell Captain Sisko."

"He's not here. He went out to meet a scout who has information for our mission."

"Captain Picard?"

The Chief nodded and hit his combadge. "Chief O'Brien to Captain Picard."

"Chief O'Brien, it's Commander Riker. The Captain's in a meeting – can I help you with something?"

"Just wanting to take the Captain up on his offer of a drink and a discussion of old times. I've got a bottle of his favourite: Vulcan brandy. Is he free later today?"

A pause. "Of course. I'll let you know as soon as he's free."

"Thanks, Commander. O'Brien out." He turned to Nog. "They'll know it's important; the Captain hates Vulcan brandy. In the meanwhile, let's get things ready for that core to go in. No sense wasting time twiddling our thumbs, is there?"

"No sense doing _what_ with our thumbs?"

"I'll show you later."

Their work was done and it was nearly dinner time when they got to see Picard. It was markedly different from Nog's first meeting with him. The Captain was polite, but there were no smiles. The Chief had explained the situation, and now Picard's calculating eyes were fixed unwaveringly on him. Nog straightened as he made his report.

"I don't know the officers, sir," he said, "But one was an admiral, the other a lieutenant."

"Did they know you were listening?"

"No, sir. I don't think so."

"What did they say, Ensign? As exactly as you can remember."

"The admiral asked if they had enough evidence to arrest Garak. The lieutenant said yes, but that they should wait until the Defiant were gone. The admiral grumbled about that, said he didn't like pussy-footing around, sir, but he didn't press it."

"And that's all they said?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Ensign. Computer, show images of Admiral James Forester and Lieutenant Paul Ho."

"Those are the men," said Nog.

Picard nodded. He paced the room in short steps, then stopped and faced them, his eyes hard. "What I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence. Is that understood? Last week, we received a coded transmission that indicated that there were high ranking officers working with the Dominion."

Nog felt the surprise almost as a physical shock. A starfleet officer – any starfleet officer – working with the Dominion was unthinkable.

Picard continued. "We were advised that nothing was to be done until evidence was gathered. I do not like the situation. Frankly, it seems unbelievable, and yet so does the alternative. Garak was given access to the coded transmissions in the hopes that he could either corroborate or contradict the accusation." He paused, his eyes straying to his collected works of Shakespeare. "I hope I have not made a very grave mistake in doing so. Either Forester has removed him from the situation to prevent him interfering in the plot or to prevent him from carrying it out."

"You can trust him."

"Chief –" Nog burst out, but Miles held up his hand.

"I'm not saying you can trust every word that comes out of his mouth. You'll never know exactly what he's thinking or planning, and you'll never get the whole truth out of him, but he hates the Dominion and he'll do whatever it takes to stop them."

Nog hoped he was right.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super-long Garak chapter with some smut thrown in to celebrate the end of the year - enjoy!

The room was ill-lit, cramped and stuffy. Garak's shoulder kept bumping up against the hard metal of Martok's uniform. Across the cracked table, standing stiff and awkward in the narrow space, too close for either's comfort, were Picard and Sisko. Garak could think of no other venture that would lure the four of them into an unused meeting room in the bowels of a Klingon warbird. Counterconspiracies made for strange bedfellows. 

Given the imprudence of meeting openly, they had taken advantage of a Klingon-led victory and the inevitable celebration that succeeded it. The Defiant's crew had often visited with Martok, and it was natural for Picard to attend as a close friend of Worf's. Slipping away in the chaos had been simple. 

However, though the location may have been well-chosen and the meeting necessary, Garak hoped it would be brief. His claustrophobia had pressed in on him as soon as he squeezed into the small space, hemmed in by Martok's girth. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself, ignoring the close walls and stale Klingon breath that surrounded him, and focused on his report.

"There are just over two dozen transmissions that allude, directly or indirectly, to the collaboration of Starfleet officers with the Dominion. The earliest is dated six weeks ago, when a new signal was detected. The transmissions appear to come from different individuals; however, I detected subtle nuances in speech that suggest to me a single author."

"But nothing you can prove," said Picard. A statement, rather than a question.

"No. A new signal source is in itself suspicious, but inconclusive unless we can verify its origin."

"And no indication who is behind it, or how knowingly Admiral Forester is abetting them. What concerns me is the intimate knowledge of individual Starfleet officers implicated in these transmission."

"The Founders had ample opportunity to gather information before we learned how to detect them," said Sisko.

"The petaQ who replaced me could have told you the colour of Gowron's underwear," snarled Martok. "Maybe Forester is a Changeling, or his lackey is."

"I've checked into the history and replication logs of the Admiral and anyone close to him," said Garak. The admission raised eyebrows but no questions on his methods. "There's no sudden change. No indication that any one of them is a Founder."

"Then all we have to go on are the transmissions," said Picard. "I can have Commander Data try to determine their origin. That may help us."

"Why didn't we know about this before?" asked Sisko. "All transmissions were supposed to have come through the Defiant for you to decode." 

It was the question Garak had been waiting for, and one whose answer troubled him more than anything else he had found. He didn't lower his gaze. He looked at each of the men in turn. "According to the log records, the transmissions _were_ sent to the Defiant, were translated by me, and sent back to Starfleet. I need hardly add that the translations were inaccurate."

Garak had expected the uneasy stillness that followed, but not how it would fill the space in the small room, pushing out the little fresh air that remained. 

"Bah," said Martok, breaking the silence with a exhalation of bad breath. "I saw you in that prison camp. You are no coward and no traitor."

Sisko spoke quietly, anger evident in his voice. "The Defiant was sequestered for a full refitting – an _unscheduled_ refitting – when we arrived." Garak saw his scowl darken at the image of unlawful hands tampering with his ship. 

Picard looked pointedly at Garak. "I think it prudent for you to be removed from the situation. It's clear Forester plans to move against you."

Garak shook his head. "It will alert them if I alter my behaviour."

"Easier to keep you from chains than to break you out of them," Martok observed.

"But the difficult victory brings more glory."

Martok snorted. Garak kept his smile in place, but the anxiety twisted inside him like a corkscrew. If he were imprisoned, it would be where no one would ever find him. Sisko interrupted his darkening thoughts, and he latched on to them desperately to stop his slide into panic.

"I'll lobby to get Garak assigned to the mission with the rest of the crew. Forester might be glad enough to send him away with a chance of not coming back."

Picard nodded. "Then there is nothing to do but continue our investigations. Quietly."

Garak was glad to escape the confines of the room. Ahead of him, Picard commended Martok on the Klingon victory, punctuating his congratulations with a well-known Klingon proverb that brought an appreciative bark of laughter from the general. Behind him, Sisko muttered under his breath.

" _Show-off."_

Garak smiled and pretended not to hear. A moment later and Sisko was by his side, studying him, and not being particularly subtle about the observation. Garak's smile tightened. He disliked being watched, especially by eyes as discerning as Sisko's, most especially when they were tinged with concern.

It was interesting to compare him to Picard, to see the two men, both with such powerful gravity, orbit uneasily around one another. Picard was a sword, but Sisko was a tiger. He was wary and watchful, but playful and warm, his moods rich and shifting. He had blackmailed and threatened Garak without remorse; he had also given him shelter and sanctuary without hesitation. 

"You aren't taking care of yourself." 

Most people would have asked how he was, leaving space for him to frame a reply. It was this directness, this un-Cardassian refusal to equivocate, that so frustrated Dukat. A fact Sisko was well aware of, Garak suspected. 

"The situation is hardly conducive to it, and I am not the only one inconvenienced by the pressures of war."

A bright laugh. "You mean I look like shit too. You might be right. This mission has been a bitch to get together and it's still a gamble. And don't give me any bullshit line about not knowing what I'm talking about. I doubt there's a replicator recipe on this station you haven't rifled through."

"And yet you're offering to take me along."

"I never said you weren't useful. Besides, I'm not doing you any favours. It's not going to be easy, so I'd advise you to get some rest."

Advice easier given than taken, Garak thought as they emerged into the head banging bedlam of a Klingon victory party in full swing. Sisko disappeared into the crowd, heading towards Dax and Worf, who were blasting out bawdy ballads with members of Martok's crew, Dax perched triumphantly on the legs of an overturned table. 

Garak had no desire to join them. He cast about half-heartedly for Julian. Even if he could find him amidst the trample of slosh-drunk Klingons, the noise would crush any conversation they might attempt. He made his way, therefore, to the exit. Several Klingons, remembering him, roared greetings as he passed, impeding his progress, demanding another demonstration of his knife skills or another retelling of his exploits. Garak could not help the unkind thought that a love of repetition correlated with a corresponding lack of intellect. He deflected the drunken come-ons, his frustration and irritation mounting as he inched and pushed his way out.

The nail in the coffin was when he spotted Julian across the room, sloppily kissing one of the officers of the _Heroic_. Envy ate at him. He took an irrational step forward, only to catch himself angrily. He had no right to his emotion; he had chosen this platonic limbo they were locked in. More and more he wondered why he pushed Julian away. He suspected his reasons were no more than fabrications stretched over an unsightly fear that Julian would find him wanting. Either he would be unable to reciprocate Julian's openness or Julian would come to truly understand him. In either case, he would leave, taking with him whatever remained of their friendship.

Garak made his escape, having to compose himself hurriedly as he ran into Julian's friend, Dr. Caplan. He gave a curt smile and bow. "Good evening, doctor. Are you enjoying yourself?"

Her eyes shone with half-drunk enthusiasm. "I've never been to a Klingon party before. It's something."

"And the knife-fights haven't even begun," he replied, politely moving past her.

She grabbed his forearm. He tensed, suppressing the urge to shake her off.

"Are you leaving already?"

"Alas, you hear one glorious tale of battle ... "

He trailed off with a smile. She returned it but bit back the invitation he saw on her lips. Her eyes darted to the crowded room then back to him, the dilemma clear on her face as she debated which bit of danger she wanted to pursue. He started to pull away and the prospect of his leaving decided her. 

"It _is_ a bit noisy. What about a drink in my quarters?"

His smile took on an altogether different quality.

He followed her down the corridor. As soon as they reached a quieter spot, she pulled him into a dark corner. Kissing was not a Cardassian custom, but he had cultivated a certain mastery of it with the human lovers he had had. Although the underlying motivation was to be prepared should he and Julian ever come together, practice in itself was its own reward. Kath pressed against him, slipping her tongue between his lips, and he breathed in her excitement, her arousal escalating his. 

She stepped away and grabbed his hand, pulling him. He complied, following her wordlessly. As soon as they reached her quarters they came together again, both impatient, urgent. He backed her up against the wall, hands cupped around her face as he kissed her, her hands wrapped around his waist. 

His hands slid down, caressing her neck and shoulders before finding and undoing the buttons on her loose-fitting top. He slipped it off her, bending to bite and suck at her throat as his hands traveled slowly down. She groaned, arching into him, offering her nipple to his willing mouth. He unzipped her trousers and snaked his hand inside, finding her already wet and willing. She gasped, pulling ineffectually at his clothing, frustrated.

He stepped back. They breathed heavily, watching each other. He began undressing, moving slowly, allowing her to take in the alienness of his body. She watched, an eager tongue moistening her lips, mirroring him as she pushed down her pants, kicking them aside. 

She drank him in eagerly: the glittering scales, the hard curving ridges. Her hands followed her eyes, tentative at first, fingers brushing against scales, then getting bolder, flattening her palm against his chest and scratching her nails down his flank. He grabbed her wrist, pulling it to his mouth and nipping at her palm. He showed her how to rub and pinch the sensitive, swollen scales on his neck, and she complied, moving closer to push her body against his, adding the sharp scrape of her teeth. He shivered, running his hands down her back, over the curve of her ass.

She moved a hand tentatively down his stomach. "Do you .. can I?"

He swallowed and moved away, allowing himself to evert, watching with hooded eyes as her gaze fastened on the thickness of his prut. He circled his fingers around the base of it, squeezing. She joined her hand to his, and he hissed in response. He could see the alien sound aroused her, the alien feel of his prut. She sank suddenly to her knees, anchoring her hands on his thighs, and swallowed him deep. 

He let the hissing build to a low rumble of pleasure. He held her hair, firmly but not roughly, to control her movements. It was exquisite, the heat of her mouth, the pressure, the sight of her on her knees in front of him.

He wanted more. He tugged on her hair, and she took the hint, standing up. She wrapped her arms around his neck while he grabbed her hips and hoisted her effortlessly up. He walked back slowly, her legs wrapped around him. Bracing against the wall, he pushed into her slowly until he was seated deep within her. 

"Oh. Fuck, yes" she breathed. She rocked her hips forward and he ground into her. Her legs tightened around him. They were both close, too on edge to make it last. He could feel her climax building. He bit at her neck as he pushed himself even further inside. She cried out and tightened around him, arms and legs constricting, and he let himself go, thrusting deep and crushing her hips against him as he spilled into her, gasping against her. 

The rested a moment. When he felt her relax and laugh delightedly into his ear, he pulled out of her. She unhitched her legs, and he lowered her gently to the floor. She gave him an uneven smile. "Quite a ride."

"Mmmm," he agreed. "But a bit messy."

"Shower?"

"Please."

It was a one person shower, and there was no longer any urgency to share. Garak showered first, indulging in the hot water and her admiring gaze. She greeted him with a slow, languid kiss and a towel, then stepped past him into the shower. When she emerged a leisurely ten minutes later in a half-open robe and found him dressed, she frowned. 

"Are you going?"

"Only if you wish." He'd wanted another dose of triptacederine, and he'd noted with alarm he was almost out. He'd also been cold. He waved his hand around the room in a vague way. "The temperature is rather cold by Cardassian standards," he explained. 

"At least you don't have to worry about shrinkage." At his confused look, she laughed. "Human male genitalia shrinks in the cold, to preserve heat."

Garak digested this odd bit of information. "Another disadvantage of external genitalia. I admit I haven't found any advantages to the design so far."

"I've never given it much thought. How much warmer would be comfortable for you? Don't mind me, I like the heat. Ten degrees Celsius?" 

Garak nodded and she gave the command. The lights were already on low.

"Thank you."

She stood and stretched with a feline grace. "Would you like a drink? I've got some real scotch left, if you'd drink that."

He stared appreciatively. "I would."

As she came back with the drinks, he said, "There is one thing I would wish to discuss, if you are amenable."

She cocked an unconcerned eyebrow at him as she seated herself on the arm of the sofa. "This isn't the part where you tell me you've always had a medical fantasy, is it?"

"I can assure you it's not." The idea held no fascination for him.

"Good. I'm not really into that. Are there other things? I mean, do Cardassians even have fantasies or fetishes?"

"I'm afraid I don't know enough about humans to compare." He liked her well enough, but she was not Julian, and he was not going to indulge her curiousity except in some very practical and thoroughly enjoyable ways. 

Garak took a sip of Scotch and ran his finger around the rim of the glass. "You are Julian's friend."

She took a large gulp of hers and lifted it to him in a mock salute. "I am. And?"

"And you are aware that this hearing may not have a good outcome."

"I am, yes. If you have something to say, say it. I assume you want my help. Believe me, if there's a way to help Julian, I will, but not if it's illegal or unethical – at least, not on your say so."

"I appreciate your caution, but I assure you it is nothing nefarious, merely something I am unsuited for."

"I imagine that's a small list."

He smiled, letting his eyes be distracted by the way her robe fell loose at the shoulder. He took another drink. "I like to prepare for the worst. If Julian is removed from Starfleet, he will have somewhere to go –"

"Martok."

"Just so. While accepting of the possibility, Julian is incapable of preparing for it. He seems to think it would mean he had lost faith in the system."

"Yes, that sounds like Julian. I'm still waiting for what you want, though."

"Merely this. You will have noted that Klingon ships lack many things which humans would consider to be basic necessities. I see no need for Julian's potential exile to be worse than it has to be, but I don't know what a human might consider useful."

She thought. "You want me to pack him a combination survival kit and care package."

"Medical supplies as well. I hardly expect you to put together an infirmary, but –"

She held up a hand. "I get it. All right, I'll do it. And hope he doesn't need it."

She threw back the rest of her drink and stood. "Now. Let's get back to other pressing business, shall we?"

She let her robe slip from her shoulders to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do Klingons even wear underwear ha ha? This is so OOC but I don't care because it cracks me up.
> 
> FYI - I'm putting this aside while I work on a contribution for the Just in Time Fest, but I promise to get back to it after that. If you are curious about the Fest or want to submit, check it out on Tumblr at @startrekjustintime


	16. Chapter 16

Despite it being well past midnight when Julian returned to his quarters, there was no sign of Garak. Julian couldn't tell whether he had been and left or had never set foot in the room at all, for Garak never left without erasing as many traces of himself as he could. He made his bed with military precision, he wiped his prints off his locked PADDs, he recycled any dishes or scraps, and he packed all his belongings away out of sight under the bed, even his toiletries.

He was not the ideal roommate by any standard Julian could think to apply; and yet, having him there had made the last few weeks bearable.

Julian could think of a dozen reasons Garak hadn't returned. He could be at Martok's party showing off, or have gone back to the Enterprise with Picard to carry out some plan, or been wayaid by Kath, or be wandering the corridors, as he sometimes did when his claustrophobia got the better of him. 

He could also be in a holding cell, or hurt, or lying in some dark corridor in the lower decks with a phaser blast to the chest. Julian checked the computer: no messages. He would have heard, surely someone would have contacted him, if Garak had been arrested or something had happened. He did the math. The probability was high that Garak was fine. He knew this, but knowing did not stop the worries from picking away at his confidence in the numbers.

He turned up the heat, showered and got ready for bed. No Garak. He tidied up and scanned for bugs, because Garak was _fine_ and would be upset if he found Julian's uniform on the floor one more time. No Garak. He settled down to read a recent publication, but his eyes spent more time studying the door than the research.

It was just after 0100 hours when Garak returned. 

Julian sprang from the bed, research paper forgotten, and pulled him into a hug. Garak froze. A moment later Julian felt arms creep around him.

"Were you waiting up for me, Doctor?" Garak asked, his voice as tentative as his embrace.

"I might have been a bit worried," Julian mumbled into his shoulder, hugging tighter. 

Again a hesitation, and again Garak responded in kind. 

"I assure you, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sensing Garak's discomfort with his emotion and proximity, Julian gave a final squeeze and pulled back, wrapping up the last of his worry in a light jest. "Oh, I don't know. Conspiracies? Threats to arrest you?" 

"I _am_ sorry, Julian. I didn't mean to worry you."

"It's all right." 

Julian sat back on his bed and picked up his PADD, this time as a cover rather than a distraction. He rather liked watching Garak get ready for bed, but knew the Cardassian was always self-conscious about being observed. 

Garak took off his shoes and stored them in the closet, then went into the refresher to shower, brush his teeth and change. Garak's modesty was such that Julian, to his intense dissatisfaction, hadn't even had a glimpse of bare ankle since they'd started sharing quarters. 

While Garak was brushing off his clothes and hanging them up, Julian brought out his question - appropriately clothed as a remark. Cardassians considered direct questions rude, which meant Julian had to deploy them strategically.

"I looked for you at Martok's party," he said.

"The meeting went longer than I had anticipated – or rather, it started late. Captains' schedules are unpredictable. I _did_ happen to notice you when I came through the main part of the ship but you were ... preoccupied with other matters."

Julian groaned. "Ah. Right. Ensign Tretian from the _Perseverance_. I went back to their quarters."

"And?" Garak turned to him, missing nothing.

" _And ..._ it was awkward and awful and embarassing, all thumbs and elbows, and if their ship weren't leaving tomorrow we'd have to avoid each other or die of mortification. All right?"

"I'm sorry," said Garak.

"Uh huh. I might believe you if you didn't have that smirk plastered on your face. I hope your evening was more enjoyable."

"It was, thank you."

"And?"

Garak's smirk escaped him entirely. "And what?"

Julian pulled the ace out of his sleeve.

"Strawberry fields."

Garak stopped, tunic halfway to the hangar. "I beg your pardon?"

"Kath's perfume." 

"Hmmm." He put away the tunic and closed the closet.

If it hadn't been the perfume, Julian would never have known. Not a hair was out of place nor a wrinkle visible in his clothes. Even when Garak did a walk of shame, he did it impeccably. 

"It had to be better than my fiasco, at any rate," Julian said in half-apology, knowing how Garak hated anyone knowing personal details about him.

Garak sighed and relented. "Let's just say that needs were met and curiosity was satisfied."

"You romantic you."

"May I turn out the lights now?"

"Are you tired?"

"Julian, it's 01:30. Of course I'm tired."

"I meant I wanted to talk."

"I know."

"I was being subtle. You should appreciate that. Anyway, it's both. I do want to talk, but not if you need to sleep."

"I hesitate to commit until you've introduced a topic of conversation."

Julian laughed, but it was a bitter, dry thing. "It's not like there's a dearth of them. My hearing, which is less than 48 hours away and could end in my dismissal from Starfleet. The threat of you being arrested, and the fact that there's nothing I can do about it. The war, which is going badly no matter which way you calculate the numbers. Or this new mission of the Defiant's, where I maybe have to watch my friends go into danger without me."

Garak came and sat on the end of Julian's cot.

"You're worried and feeling helpless."

"Yes, I am. Does it show?"

"A little."

"I wish I could be more like you," he said, and regretted it as soon as he saw the look on Garak's face. "Elim – " he began, but Garak cut him off.

"Don't, Julian. Your feelings, your worries over others, it may hurt, but at least you can share them, let others know you care. It's better than ... than being stunted and twisted and ... and broken."

"Hey, hey – you're not broken." Julian sat up, reaching out to grab Garak's shoulder. 

Garak shook his head.

"I know how to see the pain, Doctor. How to grab hold of someone's fear and dig out its roots. I know how to twist the knife, how to break things apart. I don't – I don't know how to help, to comfort, to heal. I wish I could do that for you, Julian, but I can't. I can't, and you don't want to be someone like that. You don't want to be _with_ someone like that."

He launched himself off the bed and stood staring out of the small, grimy porthole, his back to Julian.

"That's not true, I –" Julian cut himself off, considering what to say. Broad, bland reassurances would carry no weight with Garak. He started again. "Comforting someone, it's not a quality you have or don't have, it's a skill. Just because you haven't been taught doesn't mean you can't learn. What matters isn't that you don't know how to comfort someone, it's that you want to. I know you care about me, Elim. I know you want to help ... and knowing that _does_ help. Truly."

Julian could tell his words were affecting Garak by the slight lessening of the tension in his shoulders and the way his head turned slightly toward Julian, as if he wanted to believe him.

"I can give you your first lesson now," Julian continued in a lighter tone, the familiar and comforting playfulness of the Replimat.

Garak turned his head fully to look at him, a small smile tugging hopefully at his lips.

"Oh?"

Julian scooted to the back of the bed. He spread his knees and patted the space between. "Come here."

Garak looked dubious but complied, the cot creaking under his weight. He sat, stiff and awkward, until Julian put a hand on his shoulder and pulled back gently. "Lean back. Don't worry, you won't crush me."

Garak did as he was told. Julian wrapped his arms and legs around him, tipped his head forward into Garak's shoulder and breathed in the scent of him. "See? You're doing wonderfully already."

Garak tilted his head back and looked up at him. "I haven't actually done anything."

"Physical comfort. It's massively important for well-being. Just think of yourself as a large, therapeutic Kukkalakka." He made his point with a tight squeeze and a soft hum of contentment.

Garak snorted. "Soft and fluffy?"

"Safe and soothing."

"I can honestly say no one has ever applied those terms to my nearness."

Julian suspected Garak had never been able to apply those words to anyone else, either. Had anyone ever comforted him? Julian felt the frame underneath him was too thin: stretched and taut and tense. His skin was too pale, his pulse too jittery. He pulled Garak even closer, reassuring himself that he was okay, that they were both okay, at least for now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! I took time off to write a small fic for the Just in Time fest which turned into a long fic. I'll be back to a more regularish schedule with this work now.


End file.
